Name Witheld jpb-13

by J. A. Jance

  Fortunately for everyone in the restaurant that day-yours truly included-it is also considered to be a very safe weapon in that it's unlikely to discharge when dropped accidentally. Or even deliberately. It is designed to use only Winchester Western 60-grain Silvertip hollowpoint rounds. Which means that it's not worth a damn for target practice, but it can be deadly at close range.

  The surprisingly loud thunk the gun made when it landed on the white linen tablecloth made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wasn't the only person in the dining room who noticed. At a table just across from us, a tall, fiftyish blond woman had been seated along with a gray-haired, bearded man. When the gun landed, the man rose to his feet. "A gun!" he blurted. "She's got a gun!"

  The blonde had just raised her newly filled water glass to her lips. Choking, she dropped the glass, which bounced off the edge of the table and then plunged to the floor, where it splintered into pieces and sent a spray of icy water and glass fragments scattering three feet in all directions.

  A concerned service staff converged on the mess from every direction. The unexpected appearance of the weapon had caused a sudden burst of adrenaline to shoot through my system. The gun lay on the cloth and Grace left it there, making no effort to grab it. Realizing from the fact that she wasn't reaching for the weapon that there was no immediate danger, I covered the offending gun with my napkin. Once it was out of sight, I pulled it over to my side of the table.

  "This thing isn't loaded, is it?" I demanded.

  Grace Highsmith shrugged. "Probably," she said. "It usually is. That's how we keep it."

  "It's yours then?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you have a license to carry?"

  "Not exactly."

  "As far as I'm concerned, not exactly means no license," I told her. "No doubt you realize that's a violation." I lifted the napkin and looked down at the little. 32 automatic. "Loaded or not, what are you doing with a gun in your purse?"

  "I assumed you'd want to have it," she said. "According to the shows I see on television, that's one of the first things the detectives go looking for-the murder weapon."

  "You're saying this is a murder weapon? As in Don Wolf's murder?"

  "Of course," Grace Highsmith replied. "What other murder would I possibly be talking about?"

  That's when I signaled for Shelley. She came to the table looking slightly pale. "Is everything all right?" she asked. I noticed then that the blonde and her companion had been discreetly moved to another table-one nearer the door.

  "You wouldn't happen to have a doggy bag, would you?"

  "Certainly." Shelley disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with two pieces of foil. I scooted the. 32 onto one piece and covered it with the other. After twisting the ends together, I slipped the foil-wrapped package into my pocket.

  Clearly happy to have the gun out of sight, Shelley nodded approvingly. "Could I interest either one of you in a complimentary glass of champagne?" she asked.

  The appearance of the gun and the shattered water glass had caused enough of a stir among her lunchtime diners. People were no longer openly staring, but Shelley seemed determined to regain the lost atmosphere and settle ruffled feathers. To that end, a waiter was passing through the room pouring out free glasses of champagne.

  "None for me," I said.

  "I'll have some," Grace Highsmith said brightly. "Champagne sounds delightful."

  Shelley left our table while Grace smiled at me beatifically. "Well then, Detective Beaumont," she said, "this is really quite civilized, isn't it. I can sip a glass of champagne while you read me my rights. Then we can get on with it."

  "Get on with what?"

  "My confession, of course, although I do wish Suzanne would hurry up and get here. I know she'll have a fit if I tell you all this while she's not here."

  "Your confession to what?"

  "To Don Wolf's murder, of course."

  I took a moment to assimilate that bit of information. "Who's Suzanne?"

  There was a momentary pause while Shelley herself stopped by our table and poured Grace Highsmith a flute of champagne. Grace took her time tasting it before answering my question.

  "Suzanne Crenshaw," she said finally. "She's my attorney."

  Just then, as if on cue, the front door blew open and a woman rushed inside. Heavyset and flushed, possibly from a combination of both cold and overexertion, she was a thirty-something, dark-haired woman dressed in a navy-blue business suit. She paused in the doorway of the dining room, searching through the diners until she caught sight of Grace at the end banquette.

  As soon as their eyes met, a look of intense relief washed over the younger woman's face. She made a beeline for our table. "There you are," she said, leaning down long enough to brush a glancing kiss across Grace's parchment-skinned cheek. "I was afraid I'd be too late."

  "Oh, no," Grace reassured her, "you're right on time."

  "Is there some kind of problem?" Suzanne asked, eyeing me warily.

  "No problem," Grace said. "Detective Beaumont is being the complete gentleman. Speaking of which, here I am, forgetting my manners. Suzanne Crenshaw, this is Detective Beaumont. Detective Beaumont, Suzanne."

  Suzanne Crenshaw held out her hand to shake mine, but the look she turned on me was anything but friendly. "What's this all about, Grace?" Suzanne asked. "What's going on here?"

  "Nothing much so far," Grace replied. "We've only just ordered lunch, although I did give him my gun. I didn't like carrying it around in my purse. It could have gone off. Sit down now, Suzanne. As soon as you order your lunch, we'll try to bring you up to speed."

  With a single warning glare in my direction, Suzanne Crenshaw sat. "Grace, what gun?" she demanded.

  "Don't worry, Suzanne. Everything will be fine. I believe Detective Beaumont was about to read me my rights."

  "Read you your rights!" Suzanne Crenshaw exclaimed. Around the restaurant heads once again swiveled in our direction.

  "Hush, Suzanne," Grace ordered. "Don't make such a fuss. Before we go into all that, why don't you order lunch. And for goodness sake, have a glass of champagne. They're giving away free samples today. It'll settle your nerves."

  While Suzanne Crenshaw stared at her client in what looked to me like thunderstruck amazement, an unruffled Grace motioned at the waiter, who came to our table at once. "My guest here will need to place her order," Grace said. "And could we have another glass of champagne, please?"

  She said all this without the slightest hint of awareness that the sensation created by her dumping a gun on the table in the middle of a crowded restaurant was responsible for the presence of "sample" champagne. To his credit, the waiter didn't bat an eyelash, either.

  "Of course," he said. "Right away."

  I don't believe I've ever met anyone quite like Grace Highsmith. She was a living, breathing personification of the term noblesse oblige. In other people, it would have been regarded as bullying or high-handedness, but there was such an air of graciousness about her that people tended to do what she wanted regardless of their own intentions in the matter. That went for me every bit as much as it did for Suzanne Crenshaw.

  An uneasy silence existed around the table while the waiter returned with the champagne and took Suzanne's order. As soon as he was gone, the lawyer turned her attention on me. "I suppose coming here was your idea?" she demanded, glaring at me.

  "As far as I knew, all we were doing was coming here for lunch."

  Suzanne Crenshaw wasn't convinced. "What's all this about ‘reading rights' then?" she asked.

  "The Fountain Court was my idea, not his," Grace interjected. "I wanted to go somewhere nice so I could feel relaxed while I gave him my confession."

  Suzanne Crenshaw's eyes bulged. "Confession to what?"

  "Why, to Don Wolf's murder, of course," Grace Highsmith said with a smile. "It was premeditated, you see. I planned it well in advance."

  Suzanne Crenshaw's jaw dropped. "Grace!" she exclaime
d. "You can't say that."

  "I most certainly can," Grace Highsmith replied archly. "Detective Beaumont hasn't read me my rights yet. As long as that's the case, I can say anything I please."

  Twelve

  While Suzanne Crenshaw stared daggers in my direction, the waiter, with his continuing knack for perfect timing, returned once again.

  "Have something nice, Suzanne," Miss Highsmith advised. "I ordered the grilled cheese because it happens to be my favorite. And since this may be my last meal on the outside, I'm going to have some dessert. You go ahead and have whatever you want. It's my treat."

  Suzanne perused the menu and settled on the grilled salmon, a mixed greens salad, and a flute of the free champagne. Once the waiter left with her order, Suzanne stood up. "Come with me, Grace," she said. "I believe we both need to go powder our noses."

  Grace started to object, then didn't. The two women went off to the rest room together. When they returned, Grace was as sprightly as ever, while a tight-lipped Suzanne Crenshaw was even more grim.

  "You can read me my rights now, Detective Beaumont," she commanded. "Let's get on with it."

  Obligingly, I pulled out my handy-dandy pocket cheat sheet and read Grace Highsmith her rights. The lack of privacy in the room disturbed me enough that I flubbed one or two of the familiar lines. That was no problem, however, since Grace knew the whole routine by heart and was able to prompt me with the correct verbiage whenever necessary.

  When we finished with that, she gave me another cheery smile while I returned the card to my wallet. "That wasn't so bad now, was it, Detective Beaumont?"

  Doggedly self-conscious, I dragged my scruffy notebook and ratty pencil out of my pocket. Miss Highsmith frowned disapprovingly.

  "You mean you aren't going to tape-record my confession? I thought all police officers carried those cute little miniature recorders."

  "We usually record confessions down at the department, so they can be properly transcribed and signed at a later time. At this point, I merely want to ask a few questions."

  "I see," Grace sniffed. "I suppose you'll do that after you take me in. I thought we'd be going straight to the confession right now. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered dragging Suzanne away from her office."

  Suzanne Crenshaw's mixed greens salad arrived at the table. "Well," Grace Highsmith urged the moment our waiter's back was turned, "let's get on with it."

  "Where do you live?" I asked.

  "I have a little place up above Juanita, just down the hill from Juanita Drive," she said. "It was our family's summer place when I was a little girl. Now I live there full time."

  Over a forkful of salad, Suzanne Crenshaw sent me a withering look. "Miss Highsmith's home is on Holmes Point Drive on the shores of Lake Washington, between Champagne Point and Denny Park," the attorney said.

  The way Suzanne made that pronouncement implied that Grace Highsmith's Holmes Point Drive address alone should have commanded considerable respect from a lowlife homicide cop. I didn't really need Suzanne Crenshaw's help in that regard. I had pretty well figured out on my own that the lady seated in the booth next to me was an old-school, old-guard, old-money, and thoroughly remarkable woman.

  "And what exactly was your relationship to Don Wolf?"

  "Mine?" Grace hooted. "Good gracious! How can you even ask such a dull-witted question, Detective Beaumont. Of course, I had no relationship with that…" She paused, groping for a word. "That…slimeball…is that the proper term, Suzanne?"

  Chewing her salad greens, Suzanne Crenshaw simply nodded.

  "Slimeball of a man," Grace finished.

  "How did you know him then?"

  "I didn't know him," Grace corrected firmly. "I knew of him. I only saw him in person that one time down near Pier Seventy, and that was certainly enough."

  "What about his wife?" I asked.

  "Once again," Grace Highsmith replied. "I know about Lizbeth Wolf, but of course, I've never met her in person."

  "Never?"

  "Never."

  "Let's go back to what you said about seeing Don Wolf."

  Grace's unblinking gaze met and held mine. "What about it?"

  "When was that exactly?"

  "Why, when I killed him, of course," Grace Highsmith snapped. "Don't be coy, Detective Beaumont. It doesn't become you."

  Convinced that every ear in the room had to be trained on the conversation at our table and wondering how all this would play in local newspapers, I backed off a little. "Maybe you could tell me what brought Don Wolf to your attention."

  "Latty, of course. My niece."

  "What's Latty's full name?"

  Grace glanced at Suzanne. "Do I have to answer that?"

  Suzanne Crenshaw grimaced and then nodded her head. "Look," she said. "As you know, this entire meeting is in direct opposition to my best advice. But since you're obviously determined to go through with it, Grace, you'd better go ahead and answer."

  "Sibyl Latona," Grace said. "I think you'll agree that's a perfectly awful name! Her mother-my actual niece, and a disagreeable one at that-was a Greek and Roman mythology major at the University of Washington back in the late sixties before she dropped out of school. She's the one who stuck that poor little baby girl with such a ridiculous handle. Sibyl alone would have been bad enough. Latona has to do with a goddess who changed men into frogs or some such women's lib nonsense. Latty's grandmother-my sister-and I were the ones who shortened it to Latty. That's unusual, too, but at least it's something a person can live with. Life can be very tough on children with unusual names."

  Having grown up bearing the onus of an unusual name myself-Jonas Piedmont Beaumont-I felt more sympathy for somebody stuck with a name like Sybil Latona than Grace Highsmith could possibly have realized.

  "What's Latty's last name?" I asked.

  "Gibson," Grace answered.

  "And where does she live?"

  "Over the shop," Grace said. "There's a little apartment up there. It's not very posh, but after all those years of living in a bus, Latty is very appreciative of even the most primitive accommodations. At least this has indoor plumbing, which is more than you can say about what she lived in before."

  "A bus?" I asked.

  "Abigail Gibson, Latty's mother, is something of a free spirit," Suzanne Crenshaw put in helpfully. "Latty's younger years were spent as a vagabond. She grew up being shuttled all over North America in a converted school bus which Abby insisted on driving back and forth from Alaska to Mexico City."

  "Where did Latty go to school?" I asked.

  "She didn't," Grace answered shortly. "Abby home-schooled the poor child. My niece was a very early advocate of that, although the term home schooling would seem to imply having a proper home in which to do it. For my money, a converted school bus doesn't qualify."

  "I see," I said.

  Grace eyed me speculatively. "Do you, Detective Beaumont?" Then she shook her head. "No, I don't believe you do. You can't possibly. Schooling requires a whole lot more than just learning vocabulary words and rules of punctuation. Real education is far more complicated than that. It's where children hone their communication skills. It's where they learn the rules of socialization. It introduces them to the real world. My niece, Abigail, tripped out early and hasn't touched down on the real world in years."

  "Drugs?"

  "I'm sure there were drugs early on, of course. Now Abby's just evolved into one of those permanent kooks. She's totally irresponsible. She's never worked a day in her life. She lives off her trust fund, and still has friends with one-word names like Moonbeam or Rainbow."

  Suddenly, reflected in Grace Highsmith's straight-backed disapproval, I caught a glimpse of generations of Highsmith familial warfare in which rebellious daughters were evidently the rule rather than the exception. If Grace and her sister's generation had given rise to permanent hippies, Latty Gibson would turn against her own upbringing and evolve into an ultra-right-wing, conservative, card-carrying Republican.

 
; "As I said," Grace continued, "Latty never attended a regular school. As a consequence, she's grown up lacking the most rudimentary skills for getting along with other people. Not surprisingly, she sees herself as the consummate outsider. Now that she's older, I've been trying, in some small way, to give her the opportunity to see and experience how normal people live. Have you ever met my niece, Detective Beaumont? Latty, I mean."

  I shook my head. Seeing Latty Gibson in Bill Whitten's surveillance video didn't count as an official introduction.

  "She's a very beautiful young woman," Grace said. "And I'm not just saying that because she's my niece. She's lovely, but I don't think that fact has ever dawned on her. When Abby became pregnant with Latty, back in the early seventies, she absolutely refused to marry the young man who was the baby's father. Why she found him so repugnant, I'll never know. He's done all right for himself. He went on to become a very successful lawyer down in California. Now he's a judge on the California State Court of Appeals. And he paid child support the whole time, although Abby never told Latty any of that. She made him out to be a complete monster which, I suppose, is typical.

  "Anyway, growing up in that kind of an atmosphere, with only sporadic influence from sensible people like her grandmother-Florence died several years ago-or me, you can imagine that Latty is quite confused when it comes to members of the opposite sex."

  "And that's where Don Wolf comes in?"

  "It certainly is," Grace said.

  Raising a discreet finger, she signaled for yet another flute of champagne. In all my years of being a cop, I don't think I've ever conducted an interview in quite such elegant surroundings or with quite so much bubbly. Champagne and homicide interrogations don't generally go hand in hand.

  "Latty met him at one of those dance clubs downtown someplace just a few weeks ago. Right before Thanksgiving. As soon as she told me about him-you have to understand that Latty tells me things that she'd never dream of telling her mother-as soon as she told me about him, I knew it was serious. There are telltale signs you see, if you just know what to look for. A funny little glow young women get about them when they're falling in love for the first or second time. I noticed it right away-the glow, I mean. The upturned corners of her mouth. And, of course, he was all she could talk about for days on end. She told me that he was as serious about her as she was about him, that he wanted a relationship.