by T. R. Kelly
Robert frowned and peered out the front window toward the street. “I spent most of the morning in Seattle talking to some old friends. Orthopedic guys who are up on the latest procedures, drugs. I’m really out of the loop on this stuff. It’s just not my area. Consensus is that nobody associates typical anti-inflammatories with depression. Some of the newer, fancier non-steroids can cause depression in a tiny percentage percent of people.” He took a moment and then continued. “Without getting too technical, steroids like prednisone pills or similar stuff in joint injections are used for anti-inflammatory effects and can commonly cause emotional instability including everything from mania to severe depression.”
The room fell silent. Linn apparently reached the Mexican boat in time to make that crossing of the Sea of Cortez. I kept wondering if he drove that same wagon last Tuesday night on the Bremerton ferry from Seattle. And, if he did, what he was thinking, and feeling?
Chapter Thirty-One
1:45 p.m., Monday, February 7, 1982
Robert planned to spend the afternoon at MacTavish & Oliver Logging Company headquarters, quizzing some of Linn’s former co-workers who were still dialed in to all the local moving and shaking. I drove Terry to the Greyhound station in downtown North Fork. He slung an old army duffel bag over his shoulder, then scribbled a Seattle phone number where I could reach him. He grinned and cocked his left eye, like a guy betting a fifty-to-one shot on a muddy track.
“You tell Cheese I came after him and expect him to make good on that the one-on-one game he promised me. He can run, but he can’t hide.”
The wind chopped the Skagit River, now a dirty light tan and running a few notches below flood stage. As my tires buzzed over the heavy steel grate on the Division Street Bridge, I guessed that the local rivers would be unfishable for several weeks. Fishermen grew edgy when their favorite river ran high; fast murky water was about as bad as not having the time to fish at all. Harvey Johnston would not be pleased with the fishing outlook—and with the dwindling possibility that Linn Oliver was lounging on a Mexican beach.
I knew Johnston would hit the roof if he got the news from Arnold Dawson and not from me that Terry Rausch had been in my living room, so I decided on another quick visit.
“Well, look at this,” Jessie McQuade said. She removed her black-framed reading glasses and stood behind her desk. “Talk about dying and going to heaven ... Ernie Creekmore twice in the same day.”
“Didn’t expect to be back, Jessie,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you but ...”
“No bother,” she whispered, strolling toward the door to Harvey’s office and brushing my sleeve on the way. “Really, no problem at all.”
She clutched the round brass doorknob with one hand; the other rested on her right hip, highlighting candy-apple red fingernails. Gleaming black booties, shoulder-length apart, anchored a subtle stance that could have stopped a train. Her hazel eyes combed my face and blinked slower than my neighbor’s cat. “The boss wants to see you.” She smiled.
“Well, as much as I’d like to spend a few more moments right here, I’m sure he means sooner than later. Business before pleasure.”
“Your boss, not mine. Cookie called during the noon hour looking for you.”
“Really? That might even be about actual paying business. Any other secrets you might be holding from me?”
Jessie edged away from the door and narrowed the gap between us to where I could smell her post-lunch toothpaste. Arms calmly at her side, she tilted her head back and looked straight into my eyes. “Absolutely.” She laughed. “Where would you like me to start?”
Intrigued and more than interested by the possibilities, I rebounded to discover Harvey Johnston’s silhouette out of the corner of my eye behind the etched-glass office door. I reached out and pulled Jessie toward me so the bottom of the door wouldn’t clip her heel as Harvey entered.
Harvey’s head was down, nose in a yellow legal notepad, one hand on the knob.
“Jessie, try to track down the number in Olympia for the state ...” As he glanced up, he looked like the host of a neighborhood party whose guests arrived an hour too early. With questionable new partners. “Ernie, I didn’t expect you back so, so soon.” His gaze darted from me to Jessie, then back again. He crossed his arms, hugging the notepad to his chest.
Inside Harvey’s office, I assumed my usual spot in a chair opposite his desk.
“Terry Rausch was at my house after I left here,” I said. “He’d left Mexico to see his sister in Seattle. She’s visiting colleges and Terry told her ...”
There was a gentle knock at the door. It swung open slightly. Jessie slipped her head in.
“What?” Harvey snarled.
“Sir, Cookie’s here and says it won’t take but a moment.”
“Gawd, she was just on the phone!” he snapped. He took a deep breath, stood, and tucked in his shirt. “OK, please send her in, Jessie.”
The diminutive dynamo bolted to the partner chair next to mine and opposite Johnston. “I need to talk to you after this, Coach,” Cookie said. “So don’t go away.”
She told Harvey that the multiple-listing service was now requiring all sellers to complete a new residential-property-information form when a property was listed for sale. She said the intent was a move to help protect sellers and agents from lawsuits. Questions on the form are about basic sewage, heating, repairs, termites, boundaries, and neighborhood conditions.
“Cookie, I’m fairly certain you didn’t come here to talk to me about termites and sewage,” Harvey broke in, his right eyebrow arching.
“No, Harvey, I didn’t. But this form also wants answers to questions about any known ‘crimes of violence’ on the property, suicide, or death from other than natural causes. Well, a crime isn’t included on the form in the Sherrard listing material. Those big-city Seattle agents don’t want to include anything that might be negative to their precious waterfront listing on a lake in the middle of nowhere.”
“Wait a minute,” Johnston said. “The Sherrard place is still a crime scene. There’s still blood on the floor. How can they be concerned about what’s in a real-estate listing when it’s in no condition to sell?”
“The Sherrard listing expired last weekend. As soon as your guys are out of there, the owner wants it spiffed up and back on the market. At the price he’s asking, he’s feeling that a buyer will likely be from out of the area. Some big-bucks hotshot from California probably doesn’t care about the history because they’re star-struck over that gorgeous waterfront. Besides, somebody’s going to buy that place, eventually.”
“So, what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em?” Harvey said. “Just keep it out of the listing.”
“Exactly,” Cookie said. “The crime would certainly mean more to some people than to others. Locals would care more than out-of-staters. But the state now requires the disclosure of a felony to everybody.”
“We can get the real-estate office to comply with the new regs,” Harvey responded. “I’ll get the licensing guys in Olympia to give the broker a call.”
“Good,” she said. “The Seattle brokerage should disclose a murder happened to have occurred in the Sherrard house and get on with it. The house is still going to sell. Period.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Harvey said. “You don’t think the murder will bring the value down, or slow interest in the home?”
Cookie removed her rimless glasses and glared at the lead investigator. “Well, that’s really why I’m here, Harvey. I’m no criminal expert, but they say some killers have been known to return to the scene of the crime. Do you want to know when anybody in my office tours the place from now on? I’ve shown that home more than anybody else, and I’m sure I’ll be showing it again soon. If not before, certainly during spring break. Lake homes get a ton of activity then from families who want to be owners by summer.”
“Sure. Good suggestion. Anybody interesting on the line?”
“No, not really. First,
it depends how long the cops have it yellow-taped. I’ve got some customers coming from California in ten days who want to see any affordable waterfront on a lake they can water-ski on. I’ve got a hermit-looking guy who says he wants to hole up and write the Great American Novel, and one of the local construction guys had somebody else asking.”
“OK,” Harvey said. “I’ll see if my people can wrap it up by the end of the week. But be careful up there and not just in this home. Take somebody with you. And let me know your take on hermit-type characters.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
3:45 p.m., Monday, February 7, 1982
Cookie nearly tackled me coming out of Harvey’s office. We huddled in the corridor near the first-floor water fountain as several sad-faced county employees skirted past us.
“An offer came in on the Dolan cabin. Hand-delivered by an agent from a small office in Fairhaven. I didn’t look at it closely, but it’s from that Bellingham family that has been sniffing around up there for months. Both husband and wife have signed. I didn’t know if you wanted me to call Jim Junior or if you wanted to handle it. The deal is in a manila folder in your inbox at the office.”
I wasn’t stunned, just pleasantly surprised. “Yeah, gotta be the same people,” I said. “I’m glad they finally did something. They’ve been hanging around so long just kicking tires that the Dolans had begun to think they were flakes.”
“Have other agents shown the place recently?” Cookie said. “I haven’t heard any other rumblings in our office.”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “These people are really the only ones out there. Problem is, they probably know it and might turn the screws pretty tight on the price.”
The buyers had done their homework, having inspected every waterfront property on the lake at least once since Labor Day, and settled on the Dolan place after carefully checking the amount of sun on the lot during different months.
The buyers examined the Dolan place so frequently that the locals took for granted that a deal had already been done. Linn Oliver no longer was surprised when they showed up at his door more than once a weekend. Since none of the Dolan clan had been there for months, many residents assumed Linn was now renting from “those nice people from Bellingham who bought the Dolan place.”
“Do you know what Linn’s agreement was with Dolan?” Cookie said. “If this sale closes, the new people may no longer want to rent it to him. From what I’ve heard, they are going to want to start making their own changes right away.”
“Nothing written,” I said. “Month-to-month on a handshake. Certainly no long-term lease the buyers would have to worry about.”
Cookie glanced down and slowly dragged the toe of her tiny white sneaker in a semicircle over the vinyl floor squares. She lifted her head and stared over my shoulder. “We’re going to have to get his stuff out of there,” she said. “That is, if we can’t find him. We’ll give it a few more days, but if this deal gets signed all around, we might want to look at the calendar and pick a day to go up there and pack it up.”
I turned away and tried to stretch, but the tightness in both legs would not subside. I pictured Linn’s room at the lake, the contents of the closet, the stale smell of his sweat clothes strewn on the carpet.
“Let’s not worry about it now,” Cookie said. “I’m late for an appointment in Marysville. You take care,” she said, hustling down the hall. “And get that Dolan deal signed.”
In the office, I looked over the offer. It wasn’t full price, but it was in the ballpark. It had a lot going for it, including the fact it had come from a local buyer. Nothing upset a lake resident more than a lowball offer from an out-of-state speculator. Especially one from California who could care less about the people and history of the region. I had not been involved before with the buyers’ Fairhaven agent but had heard some positive comments about the office. The deal was fairly clean with no off-the-wall stipulations. And it was the only one I had received in writing.
The offer was contingent upon a structural inspection. It required the Dolans to physically locate the property corners and provide seller financing for three years. The last condition drew some consternation from the Dolans because the family—especially the women—preferred to be cashed out. The buyers were willing to make a thirty percent down payment but preferred to wait until they became equity partners in a hardware business before applying for another bank loan. The request was logical; they feared rejection by a conventional lender and did an admirable job of explaining the situation in a cover letter to the Dolans. Frankly, I knew the Dolans would be relieved to finally get the offer on paper.
I rinsed the dried grounds from the bottom of my Washington High coffee mug, filled it halfway with hot office fuel, and closed the door to the meeting room behind me. After I read through the meat of the offer, I knew I’d encourage Jim Junior to take the deal on behalf of the family. While I anticipated more activity from potential buyers during the summer months, the possibility of a fatter price seemed like a long way down the road, especially given the strange and tragic events of winter. I also wondered if the buyers realized that the young man living in the lakefront cabin they wanted to buy was the former high school basketball star that was now missing.
I left Jim Dolan Jr., a phone message. The purchase-and-sale agreement requested the sellers to respond within three business days and I suggested that the family consider the deal soon so that the siblings could accept, counter, or reject in a timely fashion.
“Even if you don’t want this deal at all,” I said. “I always like to give the other party the courtesy of knowing what you decide.”
Junior called back thirty minutes later, saying that he had polled his siblings and that the consensus was to take the deal as proposed.
“Kelsey whined a little bit about carrying the paper,” Junior said. “She was looking forward to her full share. Said she wants it for the down payment on her new home. She eventually consented but wants us to hold fast to the three-year cash-out. No extensions.”
“Got that,” I said. “I’ll make sure to hammer that home with their agent. It’s a big deal to ask any seller to carry the financing for any time period.”
“Timing is a big part of this, Ernie,” Junior said. “Had things been different, we may have countered to full price, but this year’s county tax statement just arrived, and nobody wants to write the check. I know a brother and a sister that don’t even have enough money to write their share of it. The tax has become a drain, along with the insurance. And now this murder down the way? Could keep values down for a long time. I don’t want our place being clouded by a neighborhood killing. I’m looking at this offer as a bird in the hand.”
We agreed to meet at Weller’s Restaurant off Interstate 5 just west of Arlington at 6:30 a.m. The early get-together would allow Junior to scoot up I-405 and miss the Boeing traffic heading for the Mukilteo plant. The place would also allow me to sample at least one of Mrs. Weller’s early morning pastries.
“I’ll be in the office until at least seven tonight, and then I’ll be heading home,” Junior said. “So let me know if there’s anything else you need before tomorrow.”
“It would be helpful if you could bring the power of attorney that gives you authority to sign for the family,” I said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know. And bring your dad. Tell him I’m going to introduce him to a hot cinnamon roll he won’t believe.”
“Will do,” Junior said. “If I can get him to answer his phone. He really needs to get out. Sits in that dark basement and watches game shows and ESPN. Say, what have you heard from Cheese Oliver? Have you told him that he might have to move?”
I lifted a hand behind my head and massaged the back of my neck. “We still haven’t found him, Jim. I don’t know where he is.”
“Jesus, Ernie. What do the cops say? Do you think there’s any hope that ...”
“I don’t know. They’ve had APBs out the past few days all along the Pacific C
oast and in Arizona and Nevada. Not a word. The chief investigator hasn’t said anything, but I get the feeling he’s starting to lean toward suicide.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
6 p.m., Monday, February 7, 1982
The phone call came at the dinner hour, prime time for telemarketers or family and friends who haven’t checked in for months. Pick it up and hear a pitch for the lowest mortgage rate in the free world, or pass and hear later from a former player about how he’d been trying to reach me for weeks but can’t ever seem to catch me at home?
“Ernie?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Jessie. I am so sorry, but ...”
The rustling in the background sounded like the Seahawks’ stadium on a football Sunday. “Hi. Just getting ready to come get you for the movie. But I can barely hear you. Can you speak up a bit?”
“Sorry, there’s quite an early-dinner crowd here tonight. I’m at the Big Lake Bar and Grill.”
“OK, but I thought ...”
“It’s not by design. Believe me. I’ve had a little accident.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. A little embarrassed, but fine. My car’s in the culvert near the restaurant and I was wondering if you had time to tow me out.”
“Sure, sure. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Are you able to drive the car?”
“I think so. The back rear panel is dented, but everything looks in pretty good shape. I hit the brakes too late and slid on in.”
“Did some guy blind you with his brights turning into the parking lot? I know that stretch is pretty nasty, especially when it’s raining.”
“No, it was all my fault. I was on my way home and turned to see ... Ernie, I’m fairly certain I saw Ross Sylanski’s ’57 Chevy cruise past me. I couldn’t see who was driving, but I loved that car for so long. Those chrome wheels. I just remember so vividly how that car looked on the road.”
