“Kramer,” I said, “Captain Powell ordered us to work together. He can’t order us to be a team. Turning the two of us into a team would take an act of God!”
And that was pretty much where things stood when Kramer gave the wheel a sharp twist and sent us speeding down a steep, winding road through a forested ravine. I figured his temper tantrum was going to kill us both, but I was damned if I’d tell him to slow the hell down. When we finally reached the bottom of the hill, we turned north on Holmes Point Drive past a narrow band of high-priced, lakefront homes.
Remembering the almost reverential manner in which Suzanne Crenshaw, Grace Highsmith’s attorney, had spoken of Grace’s Lake Washington digs, and after seeing some of the nearby waterfront homes, I was prepared to be confronted by something downright palatial. I was surprised, then, when the numbered address in my notebook turned out to be attached to a ramshackle single-car garage that teetered on the edge of a steep cliff. The garage crouched between two massive houses that rose up in three-story splendor on either side. Like pricy waterfront properties everywhere, parking spaces in that neighborhood were at a premium. Grace Highsmith had evidently manufactured an extra, one-way-in-and-out space by leveling the ground above a retaining wall that was meant to keep her ancient garage from tumbling down the mountain. A berm at the end of the ledge was designed to keep cars from falling as well.
Kramer parked the Caprice with the front bumper grazing the berm. “Great view,” he said, looking out over the lake, “but a hell of a bad place to have your brakes go out.”
We got out of the car and walked forward to a garage that came from an era of smaller, narrower vehicles. The door had been left open in order to accommodate the enormous tail fins of a hulking 1961 classic all-white Cadillac that didn’t quite fit inside the four walls.
Next to the garage, a set of wooden plank steps, flanked by a two-inch pipe handrail, led down to a house tucked tidily into the side of the bluff some twenty-five steps below street level. Pausing at the top of the steep flight of stairs, we were almost even with the level of a rooftop chimney. A column of wood smoke spouted out of the chimney and curled out over the water.
“I guess some people have enough clout that they don’t have to worry about burn bans,” Kramer said sourly.
The Puget Sound area, always on the cutting edge of environmental activism, is one of the nation’s first bastions of smoke police. During winter months—especially during periods of cold, clear weather—atmospheric inversions form, trapping dirty, polluted air near the ground. When the Cascades and Olympics disappear behind bands of reddish gray glop, the state of Washington imposes burning bans. During those bans, the use of woodstoves or fireplaces is prohibited except in homes where they provide the only source of heat. In order to enforce the bans, the state sends out smoke police whose job it is to warn and fine those poor misguided and mostly overly romantic folk who mistakenly try toasting their wintry toes in front of cozy fires.
For over a week, now, the weather around Seattle had been unseasonably clear. A burning ban had been in effect for at least two days that I knew of. It struck me as funny that Detective Kramer was so offended by Grace Highsmith’s breaking that particular rule.
“Look,” I said, “if the lady doesn’t worry about concealed-weapons permits, why would she bother with a burning ban?”
“Because rules should apply to everybody,” Kramer said. “That’s the way it’s supposed to work.” At the top of the stairs, he stepped to one side. “After you,” he added.
The surprisingly steep stairway ended on a landing that expanded into a bricked patio surrounded by raised flower beds that were thick with hardy ferns and an array of bright purple plants that looked for all the world like some strange kind of overgrown cabbage. Part of the patio was covered by a cord or more of cut and stacked wood, stored under a blue tarp. I didn’t want to think about how much hard work it had been to haul all that wood—one armload at a time—down those stairs from street level.
The tiny house in front of us was divided from its towering neighbors on either side by a tall board fence that ran almost down to the water. The fence was big, but the house itself looked more like a shake-shingle dollhouse than a real one—a miniature Victorian, complete with steeply pitched roof, dormer windows, and real shutters that may or may not have been operable. Unlike the weather-beaten garage at street level, the house had a reasonably fresh coat of paint, and appeared to be in fairly good shape. Still, it was easy to see that the little cottage was nearing the end of its useful lifetime. Soon it, too, like all its now-vanished contemporaries, would be bulldozed into oblivion to make way for some new, oversized, million-dollar-plus showplace.
I stepped up onto a wooden porch that creaked in protest under my weight. The doorbell—an old-fashioned, push-button affair—sported a three-by-five card that said, in faded, almost invisible, inked letters, BELL’S BROKEN. PLEASE KNOCK.
I was raising my hand to do so when Kramer stopped me.
“Are you sure you have the right address?” he asked.
“Yes, I have the right address,” I returned. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“I thought you said Grace Highsmith is in her seventies or eighties. If so, how the hell does she get up and down all those stairs?”
While I turned back to look at Kramer, the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. “One step at a time,” Grace Highsmith answered before I could. “These days, it takes a little longer than it used to for me to get up and down. When I’m too old to make it under my own power, then I suppose it’ll be time to check myself into an old-folks’ home, although I was rather hoping Detective Beaumont here would put me in jail so I wouldn’t have to worry about that. Won’t you come in?”
She held open the door, allowing Detective Kramer and me into a cozy living room that reeked of that peculiar old-house odor—a mixture of too many years of living, cooking, and burning. There was also more than a little dust and mold. A huge flagstone fireplace, far larger than the room called for, occupied most of one wall. A fire, fueled by the glowing remains of an eight-inch-thick log, crackled on the hearth.
At first glance, nothing in the room seemed to match. Inarguably authentic Navajo rugs—their colors long since faded to muddy browns and beiges—covered the floor, giving the place a warm, snug feel. The room was jam-packed with an odd collection of high-backed, old-fashioned chairs and couches—all of them sagging a bit here and there and all of them with upholstery that was more than a little threadbare. Frayed or not, what all the pieces had in common was an undeniable patina of age and quality and comfort as well. Their faded dignity seemed a worthy reflection of their spry but aging owner.
“Won’t you sit down?” Grace invited. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. My mother was English, you know. I still much prefer tea to coffee. Will you have some?”
“No thanks, Miss Highsmith,” I said. After introducing her to Detective Kramer, we both headed for opposite ends of the nearest couch. As I sat down, though, my elbow grazed something. Cursing my clumsiness, I turned to examine what I had bumped. I found myself examining a three-foot-high bronze figurine of an emaciated Indian on an equally gaunt horse. The statue looked familiar.
Alexis Downey, that former girlfriend of mine, is up to her eyebrows in the arts. One of the reasons she’s a “former” is that she was forever tweaking me about my general lack of artistic education, but even a complete Philistine like me can recognize a casting of The End of the Trail when he sees one.
On the floor next to the fireplace, tucked in behind a fifty-year-old leather ottoman, was a thoroughly modern fax machine. Its incoming message tray was half full of pages.
“Dusty didn’t hurt you, did he?” Grace asked solicitously.
“Dusty?” I said.
She smiled. “The statue. Dusty isn’t his real name, of course. I call him that because he gathers so much dust. I’m sure some of the artier types would choke if they heard me calling a
James Earle Fraser Roman bronze casting by such an irreverent name. He’s been in the family for years.”
I gulped, grateful that in my infinite bumbling I hadn’t knocked the damn thing over. With my luck, it would have bounced off the hearth and broken the horse’s head off.
Grace smiled. “I had planned to give him to a museum someday, but not until I was good and ready. Now, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“Once again, this isn’t really a social call. We’ve come with some rather bad news.”
Grace’s face paled slightly. She moved closer to a chair and grasped the back of it with her two frail and liver-spotted hands. “Not about Latty, I hope,” she breathed.
“No,” I agreed. “Not about Latty directly. We’ve just come from Virginia Marks’ place down in Bellevue, Miss Highsmith. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s dead.”
One of Grace Highsmith’s hands went to her throat while the other still gripped the back of the chair. “Virginia dead?” she repeated. “How can that be? How? When?”
“Someone shot her,” I said. “It happened overnight, sometime between ten o’clock last night and eight o’clock this morning.”
Slowly, Grace Highsmith made her way around the chair. When she sank into it, she seemed to shrink in size, like a balloon gradually losing its air. “Not Virginia, too,” she murmured, covering her face with her hands. “This just can’t be. What in the world is she thinking?”
At first I didn’t quite follow her. “What’s who thinking of?” I asked gently.
Grace shook her head. “I could understand with him,” she said slowly. “I almost didn’t blame her for that, and I don’t think anyone else would, either. After all, the man was an animal. Whatever happened to him, he more than deserved it. The newspaper this morning said something about another body being found in his apartment. And now this. Poor Virginia…” Grace’s voice trailed off in anguish. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Miss Highsmith…” I began.
On an end table next to Grace Highsmith’s wing chair sat an old-fashioned dial telephone in equally old-fashioned basic black. Without answering me directly, Grace took the receiver off the hook and began dialing. Kramer and I waited through the interminably long process while she dialed a number from memory. I had forgotten how long it took, after each separate number, for the dial to return to its original position.
At last, someone must have answered the phone. “Suzanne Crenshaw, please. Tell her it’s Grace Highsmith calling. Tell her it’s urgent.”
Again, there was a long pause. Kramer glowered at me but didn’t speak. For some time, the only noise in the room was the incongruously cheerful snapping and popping of the blaze in the fireplace. At last, Suzanne Crenshaw must have picked up her line.
“Virginia Marks is dead,” Grace Highsmith announced without preamble. “Detective Beaumont and another detective just came by to tell me. No, there’s nothing you need to do at the moment, but…” There was another pause, a shorter one. “Why, yes. He’s here right now. Do you want to speak to him?”
Grace glanced in my direction and then held out the phone for me. I hurried across the room and took it. “Hello.”
“Detective Beaumont, I’m on my way to an appointment. It’s one I can’t miss. I’ve instructed Grace not to say anything further to you until I can be present. That won’t be until later this afternoon.”
“But Ms. Crenshaw, surely you don’t think Grace Highsmith—”
“It’s possible Grace will be charged with some crime as well before this is all over. I don’t want her speaking to you at all until she is properly represented. That goes for Latty, too. Will you be taking her into custody today?”
Clearly, both Grace Highsmith and Suzanne Crenshaw had leapt to the same immediate conclusion—that Latty Gibson was responsible for Virginia Marks’ murder and maybe for the other two victims as well.
“Possibly,” I hedged, although at that precise moment I knew we didn’t have enough probable cause to arrest anyone, including Latty Gibson.
“When you have a warrant for her arrest or even if you just want to bring her in for questioning, let me know,” Suzanne Crenshaw said. “Promise me that, Mr. Beaumont. Latty’s very young and inexperienced. And she’s in an emotionally precarious situation at this time. Give me your word that you won’t take unfair advantage.”
“You have my word, Ms. Crenshaw, but we will need to interview her. Could you meet with us at two this afternoon?”
“I suppose. Where?”
“The shop.”
“All right,” she said. “If for some reason I can’t make it, how can I reach you?”
“Leave word with Latty,” I said.
“Thank you,” Suzanne Crenshaw said. “I’ll see you then.”
By the time I put down the phone, Kramer was looking daggers at me. I didn’t bother to explain what had gone on. Obviously, he’d learned just enough to piss himself off by listening to my side of the conversation. In the meantime, Grace Highsmith had left her chair. She came over to my end of the couch. Taking a lace-edged hanky out of her pocket, she began dusting Dusty.
As her fingers absently polished the uneven planes of metal, there was an air of finality in the gesture—almost as though she were saying goodbye. When she finished, she put the scrap of handkerchief away and turned to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“In the last few months, I had pretty well decided to leave this house and everything in it to Latty. I suppose that’s all out the window now. I wonder how much of a criminal defense a signed and numbered Fraser will buy in this day and age? Defense attorneys don’t come cheap these days, do they Detective Beaumont?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “They certainly don’t.”
“I’m forgetting my manners. I offered you both tea, and I still haven’t—”
“No, thank you. Again, you don’t need to bother with the tea. Detective Kramer and I were just leaving. Your attorney specifically requested that we not talk to you any further without her being present.”
“And you’re meeting Latty at the shop?” Grace asked.
I nodded.
“Would you like me to be there at the same time?” Miss Highsmith asked.
“No,” I said. “We’ll contact you later on.”
“All right, then, Detective Beaumont,” she agreed. “Whatever you think is best.”
I caught a glimpse of Paul Kramer’s face when she said that. He looked as though he was about ready to blow a gasket.
Grace led us to the door and held it open, shivering as the lake-dampened air chilled the room. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Detective Beaumont, would you mind bringing in another log? I can usually manage just fine, but right now…”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d be glad to.”
Hurrying out to the woodpile, I selected another ten-inch log, carried it back inside, and shoved it into the fire. As the new log dropped into place, the burning one disintegrated into a shower of sparks and glowing coals. A disapproving Kramer eyed this whole procedure from just inside the front door.
“I believe we’re in the middle of a burning ban, Miss Highsmith?” he said, while I dusted crumbs of dirt from my hands. “Aren’t you worried about that?”
“Oh, no,” Grace answered at once, peering up at him through her tiny glasses. “Burn bans only apply if you have some other source of heat. I don’t. My father was a very stubborn man, you see. When I was growing up, we had a dairy farm and orchard over where Magnolia Village is now. Mother and Father bought this place as a summer cabin when the only way to get here was to ride across the lake on the Kirkland Ferry. Coming here each year was a major expedition. Father insisted that a summerhouse shouldn’t need central heat, and he refused to install a furnace. My parents argued about it for years, and my sister Florence and I continued that battle long after our parents were both gone. A few years back, when I decided to retire here, I made up my mind to leave the house just as it w
as. Now I’m glad I did. On a day like today, there’s nothing quite as comforting as the flames from an open fire.”
“No, ma’am,” a suddenly subdued Detective Kramer agreed. “I don’t suppose there is.”
Seventeen
I could see Kramer was fried as we huffed our way back up Grace Highsmith’s stairs to the car. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded. “Since when do we conduct police business based on the whims and schedule of the suspect’s goddamned defense attorney?”
“Since I gave my word, that’s since when,” I responded. “And let me remind you, the suspect is entitled to representation. That’s the law. Weren’t you the guy who was telling me, just a little while ago, that rules are supposed to apply to everybody?”
I don’t think Paul Kramer liked having his words spouted back at him. He yanked open the Caprice’s driver’s-side door, threw himself inside, and then slammed the door shut behind him. I climbed in on my side, matching slam for slam.
“You don’t give a shit if we solve this mess or not, do you?” he growled, starting the car and mashing it into gear. “It doesn’t matter to you if Captain Powell is bent out of shape. It’s no skin off your nose if we’re up to our eyebrows in a case that involves a dozen high-profile folks from the mayor’s main squeeze to some dotty old lady member of the Board of Regents to a murder-weapon-buying former head of the Washington State Patrol.”
“What do you mean, it’s no skin off my nose?”
By then, Paul Kramer’s pot of seething resentment had come to a full boil. “It’s all a game for you,” he fumed. “You don’t care if you ever get promoted or not. And whether or not we solve this case in a timely fashion is no big deal to you. For guys like Sam Arnold and me, though, it is. For us, it’s real life. My getting a promotion means the difference between whether or not my wife can trade in her old station wagon for a newer car. It determines if we’ll be able to put money aside for our kids to go to college. You can be a high-flying playboy all you want, Beaumont. Just stop pretending to be a cop to the detriment of everyone around you.”
Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) Page 20