by T. R. Kelly
“Well, that’s a big one,” I smiled, looking at the huge, sugar-coated coils in front of me. Locating a knife to help my fork, I sliced the first section of the roll. “I spoke with Barbara about you and ...”
“I wasn’t trying to move in on Linn,” Ronnie said. “Yeah, sure, I tried when I thought they were on the outs way back when, but she set me straight in a hurry. Which was another reason I asked him to play on the Montlake team. Wanted to make sure things were cool between us, maybe get a chance to finally talk through a lot of the BS. Much of it is me, I still feel guilty he’s not playing for big-time money. We all know he was definitely good enough.”
I nodded slowly, pondering the possibilities.
“Lately, Barbara and her mother were helping me get more Hispanic kids involved in community programs,” Ronnie said. “Mrs. Sylanski is the best teacher I ever had, and kids listen to her. She’s got a lot of connections at the schools. In fact, she was critical in getting me accepted into the Hispanic Affairs workshop last week down in Portland. Even got some grad school credits from Oregon State.”
“So, you’ve been down there the past several days. Why you didn’t play in those Montlake games?”
“That’s right. I wasn’t accepted into the workshop until the last minute and was actually gone eight days. I drove straight down I-5 late last Tuesday afternoon. It turned out the school did not inform Mrs. Sylanski of my acceptance. I thought she would have known, so Barbara would have known.”
“Help me understand something. Why did you leave the Crane house before finishing the job?”
“Mr. Crane flat-out lied to me,” Ronnie said. “I bid the repairs separate from the paint job and told him I needed two separate payments. He agreed. I bought and replaced a lot of deck boards, some stringers, then downspouts and gutters. He told me three times he would pay me before I started painting. Well, I begin scraping, and he comes out falling-down drunk saying he won’t pay until the house is completely finished. That wasn’t the deal, so I split. Sent him a bill for what I’m owed. Say, you’re making quite a dent in that thing.” He pointed to the cinnamon roll.
“Actually, I have an extensive background on most items produced in a bakery,” I said. “And, big does not necessarily taste better. This was impressive, however. Not too soft with just enough raisins.”
“Sounds like you know your stuff.”
“Unfortunately, in here, I do.”
“You know, I was thinking,” Ronnie said. “Both Linn and me missed three straight games and the rest of the Fool’s Gold guys really stepped up. One night they played with four players and won the game! Played a box defense, rebounded like crazy and walked the ball up the floor. Heard all about it, plenty of grief, after last night’s game. We played well and beat one of the better teams in the league. All of the guys were asking about Linn. I just told them he was probably tied up.”
The image of Linn bound to a chair in a rancid room returned. I pushed the plate forward. More than half of the sweet roll remained.
“Well, I know he was tied up for at least one game,” I said. “Probably all three. Suffice it to say, he’s just had a lot going on in his life.”
Chapter Forty-Three
11:45 a.m., Friday, February 11, 1982
By the time I left Ronnie Garcia and rolled into the office to review the latest listings, the work morning was completely shot. When I saw Harvey Johnston’s county car in our tiny lot behind the agency, I could tell that more of my workday would be put on hold. Through the window blinds, I saw him speaking with Cookie in her office. The door was closed.
Peggy Metzger dropped by my cubicle and handed me several telephone messages. “Harvey’s been in there quite a while,” Peggy said. “And he’s not happy.”
“Probably thought I was supposed to buy him lunch.” I said. “Maybe he’s just taking it out on Cookie.”
“Not sure what it is. He did mention that Linn is doing a lot better down at Harborview Medical Center, so that can’t be what’s dragged him down.”
“I’ve known the guy a long time,” I said. “Sometimes he can get a little sideways just from missing his morning coffee.”
Peggy laughed and headed back to her post in the reception area. The new listing sheets included a couple of surprises, most notably a three-bedroom lake-view home a stone’s throw from the Big Lake Bar & Grill. The property notes stated that the house was rebuilt on the original Montborne Train Station, a primary stop on the first Seattle-Vancouver railroad.
“Another piece of history,” I mumbled aloud. “Probably sell to some out-of-stater buyer who could care less. Only after that view of the lake.”
“Not a good sign, talking to yourself,” Cookie said from behind me. “Makes me wonder about some of the hires I’ve made around here.”
I shrugged and offered a what-can-I say gesture.
“Harvey wants to see you for a few minutes,” she said. “You guys can use the conference room.” She looked as if she had a lot more to say but simply turned and marched away.
Harvey was on the phone, and I sat and waited.
“What time was the flight?” he said into the receiver. “And the return? OK, well, that’s an indicator. I should be back in the office in about an hour. No, I’m not stopping at the Philly cheesesteak place! Right. Talk to you later.” Harvey hung up the phone and stared down at the table.
“No longer in the delivery service business?” I said, tossing my tablet on the table. I pulled out a chair and took a seat.
Harvey shook his head. “Some of my guys think there’s a potential for food anytime anybody’s away from the office. But talking about a delivery service, we should be expecting a call from Linn Oliver’s physician. Apparently, they are going to release him in the next couple of days and wanted to know if we might be available to help bring him home.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’ll make the time. Just plan on it.”
“That’s what I thought. I was hoping maybe we could go together, so I could talk with him on the way home. The sheriff did question him for few minutes in the hospital. As you can imagine, he said he was in tough shape for a couple of days there. Glad we got there when we did.”
“What’s the latest on Mitch Moore?”
“Proper paperwork’s been filed,” Harvey said. “The prosecuting attorney is reviewing the tapes for the second time. We should know more by noon tomorrow.”
Harvey eased into the chair at the head of the table, leaned back, and slowly wrung his hands. “You know, the people in my department are pretty tight,” Harvey said. “They all back each other to the hilt, and you can’t say that about every cop shop. Their kids play together; wives cook together. Guys in the squad even play hoop together. It’s as if they’re all one family.”
“Granted,” I said. “But where’re you goin’ with this?”
“Well, sometimes you forget that other people know that, too,” he said.
“How so?” I said.
“I got an anonymous call from a woman early today. Said she needed to report a crime but couldn’t call the police switchboard because people would know immediately who she was.”
“Why is that a bad thing? Because she’s real embarrassed, maybe scared?”
“Scared, big-time,” Harvey said. “So scared that she disguised her voice on the phone by speaking through some sort of cover, maybe a handkerchief. Giving me her name was out of the question. She told me to go to Scott’s Bookstore for instructions on where to meet her. I went, sat down, and a salesman announced over the PA that there was a call for Harvey Johnston. I answered and was told to be at the Cranberry Tree Restaurant in fifteen minutes.”
“Were you concerned this was a hoax?” I said. “Somebody playing a game?”
“No. It was her tone. Always started deep, then after a couple of words, escalated to a place between screaming and crying. Absolute desperation.”
“Well, did she show up at the restaurant?”
Harvey tipped up his chin. “Ge
t this. I took a seat by the window, near the front door. The breakfast crowd was still there; lots of Canadian freeway fliers heading to Seattle and Portland. A shiny black Lexus pulls up in the parking spot in front of the window and nobody gets out. I wait a minute, peer into the windshield, and see a person trying to get my attention from inside the car. I look around, go out, and she opens the door.”
“Was she injured?” I said. “Being hounded by some jerk?”
“Bit of both,” Harvey said. “She had a puffy eye. And remember the client that Mark Rice had, that wanted to see Lake Wilhelmina properties? The one he was going to refer to you, but she insisted on Mark showing her the homes?”
“Yeah, he mentioned her the last time in was in this office. What’s she got to do with your department?”
“It turns out she was falling head over heels for Rice, but a guy she had dated didn’t like that at all. Sometime last week, he’d had about a bottle of wine and was putting the moves on her in a bar. Anyway, he starts talking like a big shot and says he is certain that Mark Rice wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.”
“Did she know Pee Wee was dead?” I said.
“I doubt it. She tried to leave, but he followed her into the parking lot. When she said he couldn’t come over to her place, he backhanded her in the face. One of the barmaids came out to get something from her car and saw the guy trying to stuff the woman into his trunk. Apparently, the guy realized he was made and took off.”
“So why didn’t the barmaid call the cops?”
“She did. The call was patched through to the deputy on duty.”
I shook my head, confused. “Connect the dots for me. Is this the wife of somebody in your office, out playing the field when they should be at home with her hubby?”
“Not at all,” Harvey said. “The woman was single and says the guy who smacked her was Arnold Dawson, your favorite law enforcement officer who was allegedly on duty that day.”
I pushed back from the table. “I hope she’s pressing charges.”
“Hasn’t yet. But, she believes he’s got something to do with Mark Rice coming up dead in that Sherrard house at Lake Wilhelmina—a home she’d just toured with him the day he died. She said Sherrard had promised Rice a big bonus if Rice could sell it in the final days before Sherrard relisted. So, Sherrard held firm on the price.”
“I never thought Pee Wee bought that listing,” I said. “Knowing him, he would have given the bonus back to the woman after the sale. Still, it isn’t going to be easy to prove that Dawson was involved.”
Harvey leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “It’s getting easier. He was definitely patrolling the lake the day Rice was killed. When we couldn’t find him this morning, I asked my friends at the Port and Customs to check airports and the borders. Turns out he boarded a flight for Houston, connecting to Roatan, Honduras. I’m guessing he waited until now to run for it because he got his latest paycheck and had the max amount of cash—ten grand—with him. Just found out now he had no return trip scheduled, plus he hadn’t put in for vacation time. Doesn’t look good for ’ol Arnold.”
Epilogue
10 a.m., Tuesday, September 6, 1982
Another back-to-school day and a clean slate for kids. But I still felt ambivalent about not being at Washington High on the day after Labor Day. Former coaches and teachers stay hardwired to the academic year despite their change in occupation, interest, or time away from school. By the time anxious kids and doting parents gathered at the bus stop down the street, I’d pondered my possible routine—what my class load might be, the number of students in each section, whether any last-minute transfers had arrived from out of state. Hopefully, one turned up tall and extremely skilled.
As I gazed out the front window at some of the parents retreating to their homes, one such extremely skilled individual strutted up the walkway. My truck was parked at the curb behind him. Linn Oliver stopped to pick up my newspaper, then smiled and waved it at me as he headed toward the door. His shoulders appeared broader than I remembered; his forearms tan and muscular.
“Now don’t think this is going to be a daily delivery service.” He laughed. “At least for the paper.”
“The truck run OK?”
“Yeah, thanks. That baby pulls Uncle Bill’s boat like a dream. And it’s the perfect answer to that public launch at Wilhelmina. So torn up, all that loose gravel. You should have seen some of those people with front-wheel minivans trying to get their boats out. Had to help one lady who could not back in her trailer. The husband was just screaming at her from the boat.”
“Labor Day zoo.”
“Got that right. Well, thanks again for the truck. Maybe Crab football Friday night? First home game.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If it’s warm. No longer do football in the rain.”
“OK. I guess I better head up Highway 530. I’m supposed to look at a new section of trees before eleven. What do you have going?”
I looked at the front cover of the paper, flipped it on the coffee table, and slid into the sofa. “My Tuesdays always start with a weekly injection. I get that out of the way and then look at my day. I guess first up would be that letter over there. County officials have asked me to coach a select team in the spring. They want an answer by Friday.”
“Coach, that’s great! Are you going to take it?” He took a seat in the leather chair opposite me and flopped a huge boot over his knee.
“Thinking positively about it. I’d like to get back in it, and this might be the perfect way. Probably would have to start scoutin’ in about a month. “
“Really? You seem so certain now.”
“Frankly, Linn, the MS diagnosis kind of kicked me in the ass. That and some other things this year really got me thinking differently about a lot of stuff. In many ways, it’s made my life better.”
As I searched for a way of telling him that the disease, coupled with witnessing his second chance in an upstairs room of a remote fishing cabin, had made my daily experiences precious and more fulfilling, he jumped in.
“Do they hurt?” he asked.
“Do what hurt?”
“The injections? I don’t think I could handle those needles.”
“They’re not so bad, if can you find a stout muscle.”
“I’ve had tetanus shots, various vaccines. But the needles aren’t as big. Couldn’t even look at steroids.’’
I slid my back into the couch and sat up. “What did you take for the knee?”
“After leaving the UW, I tried a number of prescription anti-inflammatories. Felt like a high school sophomore again, for about three weeks. Played every night, sometimes two games, and worked ten-hour shifts during the day. Then it began to hurt more, and I eventually broke down. Wanted that sophomore feeling, bad. Got my hands on some prednisone, took some pills once. Felt and looked like a zombie and never wanted to take them again. Now, I play less, take a slug of Advil when I do and a little Glucosamine. Every now and then it seems to work, and I can really go.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. You tell me anytime you’re even thinking about taking a new drug, and I’ll hand you a rundown of all the kids I’m scouting for the select team. In fact, I’ll need your help.”
“That’s a deal,” Linn said, rising to his feet. “I’ll also keep an eye out for potential prospects when my Washington High freshman team plays this year, and there’s bound to be some surprise talent at the camps I’m working for Doug Willis. But right now, I’ve got to get on down the road. If I miss the cruiser up on that hill, I’m toast.”
“Right. Get out of here. Call me and remind me about Friday.”
He grinned and bolted out the door. As he jogged effortlessly to his Datsun sedan parked two doors down for the long weekend while he borrowed the truck, I felt how lucky the school and community were to have him back and involved.
By the time I nursed my second cup of coffee, I’d cleaned out most of the closets and the bathroom. The blue recycle bin w
as brimming with old sports magazines, newspaper clippings, and programs.
A trash bin got all of Cathy’s perfumes, bath oils, soaps, and skin creams. I stuffed her two remaining raincoats from the hall closet into a big bag for St. Vinny’s and followed them in with several frayed shirts and threadbare trousers from my bedroom armoire, allowing room for the rack of plastic-covered garments I picked up from Modern Cleaners on Division Street. Before driving downtown, I erased Cathy’s message from the telephone answering machine, and centered a framed picture of us taken at sunset on Warm Beach above my desk in the extra bedroom.
I parked the bus on First Street and peeked into the window of Books, Bagels & Beans while waiting for Harvey to arrive. Barbara Sylanski made a fresh pot of coffee and sorted through a box of used titles marked St. Brendan School.
Her new store recently opened its doors in a storefront owned by the Berrettonis two blocks down the street from Tony’s. George charged her little monthly rent and persuaded his longtime baker to cut her the best deal possible on fresh bagels and scones. Her mother was eager to help on weekends and after school; her sister had already dropped in to help out. Dr. and Mrs. Oliver contributed two boxes of excellent quality hardbacks, plus nearly every paperback that John Grisham and Robert Parker had in print.
After just two weeks, Barbara said she was surprised by the number of professional people who scouted for specific authors and genres. Professors and students from the community college, accountants, and physicians took their time roaming the aisles in the pursuit of a special gift or a coveted addition to a collection.
The seed money to purchase much of her initial inventory and refurbish the first-floor space came from a portion of the Tyler gold that Wide Load Moore had dug up on the Dolan property. Jim Dolan, Jr., believed that Linnbert Oliver also was entitled to a portion of the money.
While Mitch testified in court that he found the bags of gold on his own before Linn appeared on the scene, Dolan said Linn was entitled to at least a share. Dolan told the court that if Linn had kept quiet, Mitch would have “given him something for keeping the secret.” That “something” was a significant sum the Dolan family decided to give to Linn who, in turn, staked Barbara.
