by J. A. Jance
“Not bad at all,” she agreed.
We lay together for a long time, our legs entwined, her head pillowed on my chest. She dozed. We both did. The next thing we knew it was almost eight o’clock. I woke up first, and gave her a gentle slap on the rump. “All right, now it’s time to rise and shine,” I told her. “We’ve got to go shopping, and I suppose you’re starved. You always are.”
“You called that shot,” she replied.
I got up and wandered over to the window. The first thing I saw was a diligent meter maid making her way down Third Avenue. “Oops,” I gulped. “I’d better run and feed the meter. Where’s your car?”
“I already moved it to a lot,” she said.
I hurried down to the Datsun and got there as the parking cart was pulling to a stop. “You just made it,” the driver said.
Happily I hurried back to Anne. “Saved us ten bucks just now, which I intend to blow on breakfast. I only put half an hour in the meter.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a friend who left the force to run a jewelry store in Northgate. We’re going there for wedding rings. All we have right now is an engagement ring. I’m the old-fashioned type.”
“I never would have guessed.”
I took her arm and pulled her to me. “Look, young lady, just because we’ve been having the honeymoon before the wedding, doesn’t mean I approve.”
She laughed. “I haven’t heard any strenuous objections.”
We had breakfast before the jewelry store opened and made what plans we could for the day. Ralph Ames’ plane was due in at eight fifty-seven, and I thought it only reasonable that we pick him up. I found myself wondering if he was coming as a guest or if his attendance was an official function for which Anne would be billed later. It was none of my business, however, and I didn’t ask.
I wished Peters would call. He had left the name of a hotel in Phoenix, and I tried reaching him there but was told he had checked out. I wanted to invite him to the wedding, now that it was on again. He was the only guest from the department I wanted to be there.
The jeweler, Jackson Hall, was a cop until he got ulcers. A partial disability had made him take a second look at the family jewelry business. He had accepted the Northgate branch with good grace if not enthusiasm. He was happy to help us choose matching gold bands, and threw in a set of crystal cocktail glasses as a wedding present.
Jackson sent us to a friend of his in the travel business. In all the rush we had neglected to discuss a honeymoon. Now, with Ralph’s plane schedule in hand, we decided on a wedding trip to Victoria on Monday morning. I had plenty of vacation time available, and I figured Powell wouldn’t squawk too loud if I used some of it. Through a fluke, a split-level suite with a fireplace was available in the Empress Hotel. We booked it on the spot for Monday and Tuesday nights. We also got a reservation for Monday afternoon’s ritual High Tea.
Anne and I gave ourselves a shower that morning and afternoon, not the rubadubdub variety, but the bridal kind. We went from one department store to another, splurging on new sheets, towels, kitchen linens. Anne, long a nomad, had seldom purchased household items. She did it beautifully, her choices impeccable, but also with a childlike wonder and glee that made it seem a springtime Christmas shopping spree. Sometimes I paid, and sometimes she did, but there was no point in quibbling over money. Obviously, we weren’t in a position that we would have to worry about the bills.
We dragged our last load of purchases to the car, laughing and cutting up like a couple of kids. The trunk was full and the backseat was rapidly disappearing. “What now?” I asked.
“I’d like you to choose my dress,” she said.
For some reason, that touched me, put a lump in my throat. “All right, but you do so at your own risk. I know what I like. I don’t know anything about fashion.”
“Whatever you like will be fine.”
We hopscotched from store to store, with Anne gamely trying on first one dress and then another. Spring dictated pastels, which looked washed out and pale against her strikingly dark hair and tawny complexion. I was going to give it up and marry her in her red jogging suit when a saleswoman brought out a vivid turquoise suit. There was a hint of the Far East in the cut, and the material was a burnished silk. I knew it was right before she ever put it on.
The clerk, pleased to be making some progress, located a delicately feminine blouse and a suitable pair of shoes. When Anne came out of the dressing room, she had fastened her hair on top of her head, with a few tendrils dangling here and there. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and she was mine.
To give the store time to press it, we made arrangements to pick the dress up in an hour. Then we went in search of flowers. I can see how planning for a wedding can take a lifetime. We made decisions together, quickly, and in perfect agreement.
Last but not least, I too was decked out in a new outfit — a suit plucked right off the rack with a matching shirt and tie. It was late afternoon before we finished shopping and staggered back to the apartment. We unloaded the car and left again, this time in search of groceries. Anne had decided to cook a prewedding supper to be served after Ralph’s late-evening arrival.
Anne bustled happily in the kitchen while I refrigerated her corsage and two boutonnieres — one for Ames and one for me. By the time I unpacked the rest of our purchases, my linen closet bulged with new additions, and I bagged excess castoffs to take to the Children’s Orthopedic Thrift Store on Third Avenue. Already the apartment was showing signs of Anne’s presence, her blues and greens softening and diluting the masculine “statement” my decorator had undeniably achieved.
By seven my part of the job was under control. I sat in the living room waiting until it was time to go to the airport. It was then I remembered Andrew Carstogi for the first time that day. He had been so far from my thoughts that his jail cell might have been in Timbuktu. I had been too full of my own plans and concerns to give his problems any consideration.
He came to mind, and I felt a twinge of guilt. It was his pain that was directly responsible for my newfound happiness. I was sorry he was locked up. Our investigation had found nothing that would justify holding him beyond Monday. He would go free that afternoon and return to Chicago and pick up the shattered remnants of his life, having lost a wife, a child, and a week from his life, while I had gained Anne Corley. Life is not fair.
Anne came in from the kitchen, untying the apron we had purchased that afternoon. Already it was soiled with a variety of culinary debris. Stuffed Cornish game hens had gone into the oven along with some scalloped potatoes. A complex salad lurked in the refrigerator. We had chosen an exotic Häagen-Dazs ice cream for dessert.
“Ready to go get Ralph?” she asked.
“Do we have to? Can’t I just have you all to myself?”
“Let’s go,” she said. “If I followed the directions right, the oven will turn off and the food will still be hot when we get back.”
“Slave driver,” I said, but we headed for the airport.
A magnificent sunset was in progress as we drove south along the Viaduct. The snowcapped Olympics reached skyward over a mirrored sound, while the sky ranged from lavender to orange above us. “I don’t know when I’ve been this happy, Anne. Not for years.”
“No second thoughts?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t have any either.”
I laughed. “Do you realize we’re getting married on our anniversary? We will have known one another for one whole week tomorrow.”
“I think I’ve known you forever,” Anne said softly.
I glanced across the front seat at her, took her hand in mine, and squeezed it. “I think maybe you’re right.”
I had the usual hassle with airport security over the.38 Smith and Wesson under my jacket. I stuck out like a sore thumb while they verified that I really did have a permit to carry it. Once that was squared away, Anne and I wandered the airport hand in hand, watching planes ta
ke off and land, eating caramel corn we bought from the airport candy shop, and griping at one another about ruining our dinner. The passage of time was magic. It seemed to lengthen, but without a sense of waiting. Happiness can do that to you. So can grief.
When Ralph got off the plane, he had a huge box under one arm. It contained long-stemmed red roses, two dozen of them to be exact. I looked at Ralph as a brother-in-law of sorts, which is to say somewhat critically. I watched Anne open the box and wondered crabbily where the hell we would put two dozen roses once we got them home. A mayonnaise jar? Masculine decor isn’t long on vases.
I need not have worried, however. In the car Ralph produced another box from a suitcase. He gave it to Anne, with orders that I was to open it when we got to the apartment. The flowers were from him to Anne, but the box was a wedding present to both of us from the firm.
Inside the box was a tall, slender crystal vase. Anne arranged the roses in it and set it on the stereo. Dinner was festive. Ralph was interested in our plans and, to all appearances, more than happy with Anne’s decision to marry me.
“She’s a wonderful lady,” he said to me later in the evening when we were alone in the living room for a few minutes. “She deserves a little happiness out of life, and I’ve never seen her happier than she is right now.”
I felt as though someone had just placed the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval square in the middle of my forehead. “Thanks, Ralph,” I said. “I’m pretty happy myself.”
Chapter 23
Some days are forever etched in your memory. Three of them come to mind right off the bat — the day my mother died, the day I married Karen, and the day I married Anne Corley. Anne had assured me there was no need to set an alarm, that she would be awake long before five o’clock, and she was. She kissed me and set a cup of coffee on the table beside my bed.
There was no question of fooling around. She was all business. She had finished in the bathroom, leaving it clear for me. I showered and shaved carefully, critically examining myself in the mirror. I hadn’t thought about my looks in years, but I was reasonably happy with what I saw. There was a sprinkle of gray around the temples. Anne liked it, said it gave me an air of authority, liked a seasoned anchorman. I managed to put aside my antimedia prejudices long enough to accept that as a compliment. There would have been a lot of gray in the beard if I’d let it grow. The point was, if all the gray didn’t matter to Anne, it didn’t matter to me.
I wrapped a towel around me and went into the bedroom. Anne stood before the dresser in her slip and bra, piling her hair on top of her head. The result was a gentle framing of her face that reminded me of the late 1890s. It was old-fashioned and attractive.
“You look lovely,” I said, running my finger along the soft curve at the top of her lacy slip.
She caught my finger and held it to her lips. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I lifted her chin and looked at her. Her eyes were quiet, subdued. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine. Just a little nervous.”
“I’m a lot more than a little,” I told her. That brought a trace of a smile.
Ralph Ames came by the Royal Crest and drove the Datsun. Anne and I took the Porsche. She drove. The minister arrived in a pea green Volkswagen bus. Those were the only three cars in the parking lot at Myrtle Edwards Park when we got there about ten to six. The sun was just putting in an appearance over the hills behind us, while a fresh breeze blew off the water. I worried that Anne might not be warm enough in the shimmering blue suit with its flimsy blouse.
Anne introduced me to the minister. I don’t know where she found him. He didn’t push any creed, and it may well be that marrying people was his whole ministry. That was okay by me. When the minister asked, “Who giveth this woman?” Ralph stepped forward and said he did. I thought he had a hell of a lot of nerve, but since he was giving her to me, I didn’t complain. The ceremony took exactly six minutes. We were in the Four Seasons for breakfast by six-fifteen.
Anne was radiant. I could have slit my throat for not having a camera along, but once more Ralph rode to the rescue. He took pictures of both of us together, and each of us separately. He had even made last-minute arrangements with the hotel for them to produce a tiny three-tiered wedding cake with all the trimmings. It was a nice gesture. It pissed me off. I would have preferred him to be not quite so thoughtful or indispensable.
It was time for Ralph’s plane before we finished breakfast. I told Anne I’d take him to the airport in the Datsun. She could take the Porsche back to the apartment, and I’d meet her there later. We rode down the escalator together. The parking attendant brought the Porsche first. I could hardly blame him for that. I opened the door and gave her a hand inside. I leaned down so our heads were even. “I love you, Anne Corley Beaumont,” I said.
She smiled. “I love you too.” With that, she drove away.
Ralph Ames was standing beside me when I straightened up. “Ready?” he asked. We said little as we drove to the airport. We had nothing in common but Anne. “Did she give you the last chapter to her manuscript?” I asked as we pulled under the airport awning.
He patted his briefcase. “Last chapter? I’ve got the whole book right here. She’s been working on it for so long I can’t believe I’m finally going to get a look at it.”
“You mean you’ve never read any of it before? I thought she had already given you everything but the revised last chapter.”
“Not before today. I’m planning to take a peek at it on the plane.” He dragged his luggage out of the backseat and hustled off toward a waiting skycap with a brief salute to me from beside the car. “Best of luck to you,” he said.
I drove back out to the freeway, a little edge of worry gnawing at me. I could have sworn Anne had said the manuscript was already in Phoenix, that was why she couldn’t show it to me. Had I somehow misunderstood?
I was halfway back to Seattle when a state patrolman pulled me over. I got out of the car in a huff, ready to show him my I.D. and give him a piece of my mind. I knew damned good and well I hadn’t been speeding.
“You J. P. Beaumont?” he asked as he reached the car.
“What of it?”
“We’ve got an APB out for you. Captain Powell has been trying to get you at home since seven o’clock this morning. Get in. I’ll patch you through to Seattle P.D.”
I got in, and the patrolman made a connection to the Seattle dispatcher. “Get down here right away. Powell is waiting. He’s hot!”
“What the hell do you mean, get down there? I just got married. I’m supposed to be off duty.”
“He said to tell you your leave is canceled. He needs you now.”
I got out of the patrol car and slammed the door. “Sorry I pulled you over,” the patrolman said. “If I’da known the circumstances, I never would have seen you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “For nothing,” I added under my breath.
I drove to the Public Safety Building. Powell was in the fishbowl on the phone as I came in. “What the fuck is going on?” I growled as he hung up.
“We’ve got another homocide. This one’s down in Auburn. It was in the paper this morning.”
“I hate to mention this, but I don’t work in Auburn. I work for the city of Seattle.”
Powell went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “A guy came tearing in here at seven o’clock looking for you. He says it’s about the Auburn case. He refuses to talk to anyone but you.”
“Where is he?”
Powell nodded in the direction of one of the interview rooms. “He’s in there. His name is Tom Stahl.”
I didn’t recognize the name right off the bat, and the slightly built, crewcut young man who paced nervously back and forth in the tiny interview room didn’t ring any bells either. From the delicate sway of his hips, I guessed he was a little light in his loafers, one of Seattle’s more obvious gays. I let the door slam shut behind me. “I’m Detective B
eaumont,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“Everybody connected with this case is getting killed. I’m sure I’m next. When I read the newspaper this morning, I almost had a heart attack. I knew right away it was the same man; I mean, how many Charles Murray Kincaids can there be?” His words came in a breathless lisp.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Stahl had been clutching a newspaper in his hand. Now he dropped it on the table like a hot potato.
“It happened right after I tried to call you, the night before last or yesterday morning, too late to make it into the paper until today. I always read the paper early, before I go to church.”
“What happened? For God’s sake, make some sense, man.”
Without meaning to, I was yelling at him. He pushed the paper in my direction and scurried to the far side of the room.
“Read it yourself. I demand some protection.”
I read the article. It was simple enough. An Auburn resident, Charles Murray Kincaid, had been found shot to death in an automobile outside his home early Saturday morning. Police were investigating. He had been shot once in the back of the head. There was nothing in the article to explain Tom Stahl’s extreme agitation. “So what?” I asked.
“Look at the address.” I looked. “It’s the same address I gave your wife.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said, trying to modify my tone. He was obviously frightened. “Let’s get this straight. I didn’t have a wife until six-fifteen this morning. Why don’t you tell me the whole story, from the beginning.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s about Angela Barstogi,” he said. “She ran up a big long-distance bill talking to some guy down in Auburn. Her mother called to complain about the bill. Said she wouldn’t pay it because she didn’t make the calls. I did some checking. Kincaid had an easy telephone number, 234-5678. It’s long-distance from Seattle. Kids called him all the time. As soon as they learned their numbers on ”Sesame Street,“ they’d string numbers together and call him: 1-234-5678. We tried to get him to change his number, vacate it so it would be a disconnect. But he wouldn’t. Claimed he loved talking to little kids.
