by J. A. Jance
The words “Bonnie Jean” were written on the envelope in the spidery, old-fashioned Spencerian style of penmanship that had gone out of vogue before I ever sat down to learn the dreaded Palmer method in second grade.
When I opened the envelope, out fell a few black-and-white photos with their deckle Kodak print edges. Someone had printed names and dates on the backs of the photos, but I didn’t need to read the caption to recognize the subject of the first one: Little Bonnie Jean, her smiling face framed by a mass of perpendicular curls, was dressed in a frilly white dress.
“Your First Communion?” I asked.
Sister Mary Katherine nodded.
The second showed a young couple, probably in their late twenties, holding hands and laughing while sitting side by side on a porch swing. The resemblance between the woman in the photo and Sister Mary Katherine was striking.
“Your folks?”
“Yes.”
I remembered what Sister Mary Katherine had told me about her parents defying their respective families and eloping. Judging from that particular photo, I would have to say the families had been wrong. “They look happy.”
“I think they were,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “They didn’t have it easy, but they always seemed to enjoy being together. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I believe it’s a blessing the two of them died together. I think whoever was left behind would have been lost without the other.”
Next came a picture of an older man wearing a clerical collar. “That’s Father Mark,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “He’s the one who looked out for me after my parents died.”
The last photo was one of Sister Mary Katherine as a little girl standing beside her father. Barefoot and wearing a sundress, Bonnie Jean posed for the camera, squinting into the lens from a perch on the hood of a vehicle. Her father wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled into one sleeve. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, grinning proudly.
“New car?” I asked.
Back when I was growing up and even earlier, photographing young men with their new cars was a rite of passage. Guys bought new cars. Then, as soon as they had them home, they posed with their new prize and had their pictures taken.
“It’s the only new car my father ever owned,” Sister Mary Katherine said.
I took out my reading glasses and studied the photo up close. The hood ornament and the bumper details told me I was looking at a 1950 Ford Custom Deluxe. Sister Mary Katherine said the car was new. She had also said that her parents had struggled to make ends meet. The sundress and glaring sunlight told me it was summer in Seattle, the summer of 1950, a month or two after Mimi Marchbank’s murder.
“Did your father ever say how he came to have this car?” I asked.
Sister Mary Katherine shrugged. “I always assumed he bought it. Why?”
I collected the photos and returned them to the envelope as a way of avoiding answering her question, but I suddenly had a much better idea of why the Dunleavy family might have moved to a new home within days or weeks of Mimi’s death. And I thought I also had a better idea of why Wink Winkler hadn’t interviewed Bonnie Jean in the course of his homicide investigation.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But as soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER 14
IT WAS AFTER ONE when I finally gave up on what was supposed to be an “accidental” rendezvous with Detective Jackson.
“I hate to leave,” I told Sister Mary Katherine. “But there’s a memorial service starting at two, and I need to be there.”
“I could stay here and wait for him,” she suggested.
“No,” I told her. “Once this place shuts down, where would you go? Why don’t you ride along with me? Maybe we can hook up with Detective Jackson later.”
I knew that Ron had specified that Rosemary’s memorial service would be private. I wondered how upset he’d be if I showed up with a stranger in tow, but the truth was, by then it was so late that there wasn’t enough time for me to stop by Belltown Terrace and drop Sister Mary Katherine off.
“Fine,” she said.
While we waited in the garage entrance for the attendant to return my rental car, I checked my phone and was annoyed to see that I had missed two calls, both of them from Jackson. In all the hubbub of Bakeman’s, I hadn’t heard the ringer. I returned his call immediately.
“We’ve been called out on something else,” he said guardedly. “I’ll have to get back to you later.”
From the way he said it, I guessed he was replying under the watchful eyes and ears of Captain Kramer—another very good reason to be working for Harry I. Ball and the SHIT squad rather than for Seattle PD. Better Ken Jackson than me.
“Who died?” Sister Mary Katherine asked, once we had settled into the Taurus.
“The former wife of a good friend,” I said. “She was murdered last weekend down in Tacoma.” I could have said a lot more than that, but I didn’t. There was no need to burden Sister Mary Katherine with the gory details of yet another homicide investigation. She was already dealing with two as it was.
“I’m sorry,” Sister Mary Katherine said.
“So am I.”
“Are you sure the family members won’t mind if I tag along?”
“Ron Peters, the ex-husband, is a police officer,” I said. “He’ll understand.”
We drove to Bleitz Funeral Chapel, which is west of the Fremont Bridge and only a few blocks from where my former partner, Sue Danielson, died. I had managed to avoid that neighborhood ever since her death. Returning to it now on the occasion of another murder made me uneasy—right up until I saw the gang of reporters massed outside the front door. That made me mad.
“Damn!” I muttered under my breath.
“What are all those reporters doing here?” Sister Mary Katherine asked, observing the crush of people gathered near the entryway into the chapel.
“Because they’re vultures,” I said. “And the idea that a police officer may have done something wrong sends them into a feeding frenzy.”
“Your friend is a suspect?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.
“As far as the press is concerned, he is,” I answered.
As we walked toward the chapel, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me. I turned to see Mel Soames rushing to catch up. “Are we late?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “But close. Come on.”
Introductions happened as we walked while the gaggle of reporters turned their attention and lenses on us. I did my best to shield the two women from the cameras as we made our way through the crush to the door, but my efforts weren’t entirely successful.
Inside the funeral home’s vestibule, we were approached by a man in a dark suit. “You’re here for the Peters service?” he asked in a hushed voice.
I nodded, and he handed each of us a program. “Down the hall and to the right,” he said. “And you’d best hurry. They’re about to start.”
By the time we reached the room and slipped into the back row of folding chairs, the service, such as it was, had indeed started. The room was small. Since Rosemary had been cremated, there was no coffin, only a photo of her that looked as if it might have been taken from a high school yearbook. She was a sweet-faced girl back then, before she had succumbed to the ravages of substance abuse.
The media may have been milling around outside, but the service itself was sparsely attended. Even counting Mel, Sister Mary Katherine, the minister, and me, there couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so people in the room. Besides Ron and Amy and the kids, Ron’s parents and Amy’s were there as well. So was an older couple I later learned were Rosemary’s grandparents.
It was telling that, despite the fact that Ron had worked for Seattle PD most of his adult life, only one current police officer from that jurisdiction was in attendance. To me that meant that word had filtered down from on high that Ron Peters was to be hung out to dry and that everybody in the departmen
t, if they knew what was good for them, should distance themselves from him. The only exception to that ostensibly unofficial order was Commander Anthony Freeman, head of Internal Affairs and Ron Peters’s boss.
Even as head of IA—an unenviable job if ever there was one—Tony had maintained his reputation as a straight shooter. He was the one who had plucked Ron from his long exile in Media Relations and had given him an avenue back into what Ron regarded as active police work. It didn’t surprise me that Tony alone would defy the brass and come to the memorial service.
Molly Wright, Amy’s sister, was also there. I thought it odd that she was sitting by herself toward the back of the room rather than with her parents, who were up front, just behind Ron and Amy. And then, a minute or so after we arrived, Dillon Middleton showed up. Instead of joining Heather, he slipped into an empty chair next to Molly. She reached over, greeted him with a hug, and then whispered something in his ear. When we stood up for the opening prayer, I noticed she was holding his hand.
It wasn’t out of character that Dillon wouldn’t attempt to sit near Heather. In fact, considering what he and Heather were most likely doing behind her parents’ backs, I would have expected him to make himself scarce whenever Ron or Amy was around, but Molly’s apparent closeness to Dillon surprised me and I wondered what exactly was going on, but by then the memorial service was well under way.
I’m sure Ron had arranged the affair in order to give Tracy and Heather some kind of closure in the aftermath of their mother’s death. I don’t know how much the service did for them, but it didn’t do much for me. I’ve attended funerals and memorials that moved me. This one didn’t. The man who officiated seemed to have almost no knowledge about Rosemary Peters and her many demons and struggles. He seemed to know even less about the broken and grieving people who were left behind or the forces that had splintered Ron and Rosemary’s marriage and family. By the time the minister segued into a lame benediction, the only person in the room who was actually weeping was Rosemary’s grandmother.
When it was time to go, Dillon was the first to leave and Mel shot after him. Shoving his wheelchair into high gear, Ron Peters dodged away from his family and made straight for me. “What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
At first I thought he was talking about Sister Mary Katherine. Then I realized he meant Mel. “She’s only doing her job,” I said. “She needs to talk to Dillon.”
“That little creep?” Ron asked. “You mean he was here, too?” He rounded on Molly. “I suppose you told him it was all right for him to come, didn’t you!” he said accusingly. Shaking his head in disgust, Ron turned his back on Molly and rolled away.
Watching him go, Molly’s face flushed deep red. Whether the color came from anger or embarrassment I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was both. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.
“Just because I have to stay with you at the moment doesn’t give you the right to talk to me that way,” Molly called after him. “I’m not your wife, you know, and I’m not one of your daughters, either. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Ron stopped, turned, and came back. “And you don’t have the right to undermine my authority over my own children,” he retorted. “Dillon’s too old for Heather. I told her that, and I told him, too. And I meant it. Just because he’s your friend’s son…”
“There’s nothing wrong with Dillon Middleton,” Molly interrupted. “If you’d give him a chance, you might find out what a nice boy he is. As for Heather, one of these days you’re going to have to let her grow up and make her own decisions.”
“Maybe when she’s grown up,” Ron returned, “she’ll be capable of making better decisions than she’s making right now.”
Amy’s mother, Carol, attempted to intervene. “Come on, Molly,” she said. “Everyone’s upset right now. Let it be.”
“I won’t let it be!” Molly stormed. “He seems to think I’m some kind of charity case and it’s okay for him to treat me like dirt. I look after his kids when he and Amy are off at work, I cook the meals, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Enough, both of you,” Amy interjected, leveling searing looks at both her husband and her sister. Then, to everyone else, she announced, “Come on up to the house. We’ll have refreshments there.”
With Sister Mary Katherine in tow, I hadn’t planned to accept that invitation, but Amy changed my mind. “Please stop by,” she said as I was holding the door for my passenger. “It would be a huge help to me.”
I looked questioningly at Sister Mary Katherine. “It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t mind. I can wait in the car.”
When we stopped in front of the Peterses’ place, the media horde was once again on our heels. “You’d better come on in,” I said, changing my mind about leaving Sister Mary Katherine in the car. “I don’t want you to be at their mercy. They’re going to want to know who you are and why you’re here. Until we talk to Detective Jackson, it’s probably best if you don’t talk to any reporters at all.”
I parked on the street and then ushered Sister Mary Katherine up to Ron and Amy’s front door. When I rang the bell, Tracy opened the door and let us in. She reached up and hugged me. “Are you okay?”
Biting her lip, she nodded. “Dad’s downstairs,” she said. “He’s the one who needs help.”
I looked back at Sister Mary Katherine. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait right here.”
She settled into a chair near the door while I went looking for Ron. He was in the daylit basement apartment staring up at the crowd of reporters milling outside. “I wanted it to be private,” he said.
“It was private,” I said.
“The parking lot wasn’t private, not with those yahoos chasing people to and from their cars. And it’s not private here, either. And then I had to go and make an ass of myself and jump all over you about that Soames woman. I’m sorry,” he added. “I thought you had brought her.”
“Mel’s perfectly capable of taking herself anywhere she wants to go,” I said.
“She wants to talk to Heather.”
“She needs to talk to Heather,” I corrected. “It’s her job.”
“Not without a parent and an attorney present,” he said. “I’ve called Ralph. We’ve made an appointment for tomorrow morning.
“And then I had to make an ass of myself about Molly. I’m tired of having her underfoot. At the time we bought the house from Amy and Molly’s folks, Molly and her husband were flying high and they said it was fine—they wanted no part of it. But now that Molly’s broke, she seems to think she can stay here forever. That we owe her a place to live for however long she cares to hang around. I married Amy,” he added miserably. “I sure as hell didn’t marry her sister. The woman despises me, and the feeling’s pretty much mutual.”
“Look, Ron,” I said reasonably, “there’s a whole lot on your plate right now. No one could blame you for being depressed, but—”
He rounded on me. “Depressed? Who the hell said I was depressed?” he demanded. “Here I am about to lose my daughter, and you say I’m depressed? Next you’ll be telling me I need to drag my butt off to see the nearest doc and get myself a prescription for antidepressants.”
“Ron,” Amy called from upstairs. “Are you coming up or not? Tony’s here, but he’s going to have to leave in a few minutes.”
“Time for my command performance,” Ron said grimly, pushing the elevator button; then, to me, he added, “Going up?”
I crowded into the tiny elevator with him and rode up to the living-room level. Amy was watching the elevator from across the room, but as soon as the door opened, she turned away and resumed a quiet conversation with her parents. The look on her face as she looked away told me she wasn’t any happier than her husband was.
Someone waylaid Ron the moment he rolled out of the elevator. I caught sight of Anthony Freeman, who was standing near a food-laden table on the far side of the room, thoughtfully sipping a cup of coffee. I made my way over to him.
His face brightened as I approached. He put down his coffee cup and held out a hand.
“Beaumont,” he exclaimed. “It’s good to see you again, even if it isn’t under the best of circumstances. How’s your new job working out?”
“Fine,” I said. “Given the choice between working for Harry I. Ball or working for Paul Kramer, I’ll take Harry every time.”
“Understandable,” Tony Freeman said. “What are you working on these days? Not this, I assume.”
As soon as he asked the question, it dawned on me that Anthony Freeman was one of the few people still inside Seattle PD who might be able to help me in my search for Mimi Marchbank’s killer.
“I’m tracking down a cold case from 1950. The investigating officer was William Winkler. Ever heard of him?”
“Wink Winkler?” Tony replied. “I’ve heard of him all right, just today. It was on the radio as I came from the funeral home.”
“What was on the radio?”
“He’s dead,” Tony Freeman said. “A tugboat captain spotted his body this morning. He was snagged on a pier over by Harbor Island.”
“Wink Winkler is dead!” I repeated in disbelief.
Tony shrugged. “What I heard made it sound like a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I believe he had already been reported missing, and they must have contacted next of kin, since they’ve already announced it on the air.”
“Damn!” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I went to see him yesterday in reference to that old case. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that I now had an eyewitness. How much do you know about him?”
“Not that much. I know he was brought down in the bribery and corruption scandals that went on in the midfifties. But I could take a look at what’s in his file to see if there’s anything that might apply.” Tony reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “What’s the name of the case you’re working?”
“Marchbank,” I said. “Madeline Marchbank. She was stabbed to death in May of 1950.”
