Breach of Duty (9780061739637)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I’ll take that call, Millie,” he said. “But don’t let these cops push you around. If they get out of line, you call Jack, okay?”

  Mildred George nodded. “I will,” she said. Then she turned back to us. “Tell me, Detective Danielson, how exactly is it that I stand to benefit from my sister-in-law’s death?”

  “Are you aware that our investigation has turned up a substantial amount of cash on Agnes Ferman’s property?” Sue asked.

  “Cash?” Mildred repeated. “You mean as in money?”

  Sue nodded. “Quite a bit of it, actually. Over three-hundred-thousand dollars’ worth. Hidden outside the house. It was concealed in an old refrigerator in her garage.”

  For the first time, Mildred George looked stunned. “Three hundred thousand dollars,” she repeated. “That much?”

  “So you knew she had money?” Sue pressed.

  “I knew Agnes claimed to have money. At least that’s what she told Hilda over the years, but I never really believed it. Where would that kind of money have come from? How did she get it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Sue explained. “We were hoping you’d be able to help us out.”

  Mildred shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. “None at all.”

  “Did your sister-in-law have a personal attorney?”

  “A what? You mean a lawyer? I wouldn’t know that, either. We weren’t exactly on information-sharing terms. Why do you want to know?”

  “As I told you, we’ve located the money,” Sue explained, “but so far we haven’t been able to find any kind of will. That means we have no idea how she intended to distribute the funds. In addition, the Internal Revenue Service will probably have to ascertain whether or not taxes have been paid before the money can be released to any possible heirs. That being the case, we’ll need to locate her accountant, if any, as well.”

  “Well,” Mildred said. “I know nothing about her accounting situation, but as soon as you do find a will, that will certainly settle things. No matter how much money Agnes Ferman had, I can’t imagine that she would have left Andy and me one thin dime.”

  “She might have done so inadvertently,” Sue suggested.

  “How’s that?”

  “In the absence of a properly executed will, the state dictates how property is divided. Generally speaking, that means the estate is divided among the next of kin. Agnes has no living children or grandchildren, correct?”

  “That’s true. She and Lyle never had any children. Agnes was far too busy taking care of other people’s children to be bothered with raising any of her own. That was hard on Lyle. I think he really would have liked having a son.”

  “As I understand it, her brother—your husband—and his sister—Hilda Smathers—are Agnes Ferman’s only surviving relatives?”

  Mildred nodded. “That’s true. Other than our son and Hilda’s two daughters, that’s it.”

  “So,” Sue continued, “in view of the fact that you have your husband’s power of attorney, you would no doubt benefit as a result of having any of Agnes’ money flow to your husband. Unfortunately, Mrs. George, that translates into possible motive. Now is there anyone at all—some neighbor perhaps—who would be able to say that you were home that night? Someone who might have seen your car parked out front all night long?”

  Mildred sighed. “No matter what I say, you’re still going to think I did it. So I could just as well go ahead and tell you the whole ugly story right from the beginning so you don’t have to find out about it on your own. Andy and I met while he happened to be married to someone else. He was a social studies teacher and the head football coach at Everett High School. When I did my student teaching, he was my cooperating teacher, as we used to call them in those days.”

  Lonnie Olson was still standing at the far end of the counter. All the while Sue had been talking to Mildred George, I had been listening to them with one ear while also attempting to be aware of what was going on with Olson’s telephone conversation. As far as I could make out, the negotiations that rumbled back and forth had something to do with someone wanting several trucks to use to haul green peas back and forth to the processing plant when it came time for the harvest in June. When the call finally ended, Lonnie stood at the far end of the counter and stared at Mildred George, hanging on her every word.

  Seemingly unaware of her boss’ riveted interest, Mildred George continued with her story. “Andy and Betty—his first wife—had been married for fifteen years when I showed up on the scene. If everything had been perfect between them, maybe what happened never would have happened. Betty was a drinker, you see—a closet drinker. Andy would come home from school and find her passed out in bed. For years he did the usual things. He covered for her and made excuses. He was so wildly successful at it—so thorough at keeping a lid on things—that I don’t believe anyone here in town ever guessed the truth of it. And that’s how things stood when I came along.

  “Andy was thirty-five when we met. I was twenty-two. It was love at first sight for both of us. There are a lot of people who don’t believe in that kind of thing, but within days of our first meeting, we knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. And we have. Three weeks into the semester, Andy moved out of the house and filed for a divorce. Everything might have been fine, but one night late someone saw me leaving his apartment. Whoever it was—we never found out for sure who it was although I have my suspicions—called Betty, my supervising teacher at the University of Washington, and the president of the Everett school board. Overnight everything blew sky-high. My whole world fell apart, and so did Andy’s.

  “I never taught a day of school in my life after that. When it comes to being hired, an F in student teaching is a pretty stiff obstacle to overcome. Things weren’t easy for Andy, either. Even though he had tenure, he was forced out of the district. He managed to land a job selling athletic equipment. That’s what he was doing when we got married. From there he went on to start his own athletic store out on Evergreen Way. He ran that until three years ago when we lost it.”

  “Lost it?” Sue asked.

  Mildred nodded. “Several things hit all at once. For one thing, the margins were getting smaller and smaller all the time. Not only that, the cash flow shrank dramatically. Andy didn’t really tell me what was going on. In fact, I see now that he must not have realized what was going on himself. He was already starting to get sick back then, only I didn’t know it. He compensated enough that I didn’t see what was happening until it was too late. Had Andy been himself, I’m sure things wouldn’t have gotten so far out of hand. Little problems would have been handled in a timely fashion and they wouldn’t have turned into disasters. As it was, those little problems snowballed into big ones. Then, of course, there was Colin.”

  “Colin?” I asked. “Who’s he?”

  Wincing visibly, Mildred paused long enough to wet her lips. “Our son,” she said softly. “From the time he was in high school, Colin worked with Andy in the business. We expected to turn it over to him eventually. Four years ago, Andy made Colin comptroller of the company, put him in charge of finances. What no one knew at the time was that Colin had a cocaine problem. Before we caught up with him, he had managed to siphon hundreds of thousands of dollars out of the business and put it up his nose. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Bankruptcy court was our only option. We came out of the proceedings with little more than the clothes on our backs, the house on Harrison, and that eleven-year-old Buick station wagon you see parked right out front.”

  “What about Colin?” I asked.

  Mildred George took a deep breath. “He’s in federal prison,” she said. “Down in Oregon. Income-tax-evasion charges and drug charges both. That’s something else Colin did for us. For the better part of three years he didn’t pay any payroll or income taxes. That’s why I’m working—to pay off Uncle Sam. Back taxes don’t go away in bankruptcy proceedings, by the way. I’m whittling them do
wn a little at a time. If I keep on working, the bill should be paid in full by the end of five years.

  “That’s why I’m so lucky to have this job,” she added with a gesture that encompassed the whole office. “Even though I had never worked outside the home, Mr. Olson here was kind enough to take me on. He gave me both the job and the training to do it. Not only that, the office is close enough to home that I can be there within minutes if something goes wrong with Andy.”

  “Getting back to Agnes,” Sue said. “I still don’t understand why she objected so strenuously to your marrying her brother.”

  “As I told you, Agnes was good friends with Betty. With Andy’s first wife. The two of them grew up together. They were friends all through grade school and high school. Agnes was even maid of honor at Betty and Andy’s wedding. So it wasn’t just the fact that I married Andy and took him away from her friend. It also had a lot to do with what happened to Betty afterward.”

  “What did happen to her?”

  “Two weeks after the divorce was final, two weeks after Andy and I got married, Betty left a bar here in downtown Everett right at closing time. She must have been blind drunk at the time because she walked straight into traffic. An oncoming cab was the first vehicle that hit her. The cab knocked her into the path of a bread delivery truck. She died at the scene. Her blood-alcohol level was something like .35.”

  “So Agnes was mad at you from then on.”

  “No,” Mildred said. “I think she was mad at me long before that. She disliked me from the moment she knew I existed. It was easier for Agnes to hold Andy and me totally responsible rather than having to accept the idea that Betty, too, was partially at fault for what happened.”

  I had seen the slight grimace that had crossed Mildred’s face earlier when Sue mentioned the fact that the IRS would be wanting to know whether or not taxes had been paid on Agnes Ferman’s money. Now I knew why. Agnes wasn’t the only one in the family with a federal income tax problem.

  “How much money do you and your husband owe in back taxes, Mrs. George?” I asked from the sidelines.

  “Really,” Lonnie Olson objected, lumbering back down the counter. “That’s about enough. I don’t see that Mildred’s dealings with the IRS are any of your business.”

  Mildred answered anyway. “Seventy thousand dollars,” she said. “Right around that anyway.”

  “And how much is your new roof going to cost?”

  “Don’t worry about the roof,” Olson interrupted. “You can cross that idea right off your list of possible motivations. I’ve already taken care of it—the roof, that is. When it started leaking after that big storm last week, I told Millie right then that I’d handle it. One of my friends—someone I’ve done favors for over the years—is a roofing contractor here in town. I’ll pay for the work. Millie can pay me back whenever she’s able.”

  “That’s certainly generous of you, Mr. Olson, but if you don’t mind, I was addressing my question to Mrs. George.”

  “It’s all right, Lonnie,” she said. “I don’t mind answering. I assure you, Detective Beaumont, I didn’t murder Agnes Ferman in hopes of getting my roof fixed. And I didn’t murder her in hopes of paying off my debt to the IRS, either. I didn’t murder her at all.”

  “What about Hilda?” Sue asked quietly.

  “What about her?”

  “What’s her financial situation?”

  “She’s had her ups and downs,” Mildred answered. “Andy and I have helped her from time to time, but then so did Agnes and Lyle. Things were really tough for her and the girls right after the divorce. In fact they lived with Andy and me for a while back then. Of course, that was in our old house where we had lots more room than we have now.”

  “I believe you called Hilda a peace broker a while ago,” Sue said. “Does that mean she managed to stay on friendly terms with both you and Agnes?”

  “Hilda is Agnes and Andy’s half sister. They all have the same mother, but Hilda had a different father. Hilda was much younger than either Andy or Agnes. In fact, she’s a good deal closer to me in age than she is to either of them. Her father died in a logging-truck accident when she was in fifth grade and her mother died a few years after that. Hilda lived with Betty and Andy for a time while she was in high school, so she knew more about Betty’s drinking problem and what else went on than anyone other than Andy. So the answer to your question is yes. She stayed on friendly terms with both Agnes and me. And let me tell you, this last year or so, I don’t know what I would have done without her. She’s been a huge help with Andy. She comes by and looks after him several afternoons a week.”

  “What about today?”

  Mildred shook her head. “Monday’s her day off from work and from Andy. She saves that to do laundry and catch up on things around her own house.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Just north of Marysville and east of Highway 99. It’s a trailer park called Green Mountain Vista Estates.”

  The phone rang. Lonnie Olson had no sooner picked up one line than the other one rang. Mildred answered that one. Sue turned to me. “What do you think?”

  “I say let’s go talk to the sister. With Olson here bird-dogging us, we’re not getting very far.”

  As soon as Mildred was off the phone, Sue asked her for directions to Hilda’s house. “And in case we miss her today, where does she work?”

  “In the bakery at the Smoky Point Safeway. She starts at five every morning and gets off at one, except for Monday. Tuesdays she usually spends with Andy, so if you don’t catch up with her today, she should be at our house most of the day tomorrow.”

  We left while Lonnie Olson was still talking on the phone. “What do you think?” I asked once we were outside.

  Sue rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe for a minute that Lonnie Olson has made arrangements to have Mildred’s roof fixed because he likes the way she writes up rental agreements.”

  “You don’t think so?” I asked innocently. I had come to much the same conclusion, but I was curious about Sue’s rationale. “Why not?”

  “I saw the look she gave him when he first walked into the office. If that was platonic, I’ll eat my badge. Not only that, what she said to him about us laid it all out in a nutshell. She wanted to let him know exactly what was going on so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing or make some kind of blunder. For all those phone calls, I don’t think he missed a word of what we said to her.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Not only that, I can’t imagine that a simple employer/employee relationship would merit Olson’s being willing to call his own personal attorney to come riding to the rescue. Based on all that, do you think she’s lying about being home all Monday night?”

  “Maybe,” Sue said. “And if Olson is that eager to leap to Mildred’s defense, maybe he’s in on it with her.”

  Without saying anything more, we climbed back into the Caprice. As we backed out of our parking place, the license plate on Lonnie Olson’s Saab was fully visible. “How about jotting it down?” I asked. “While you’re at it, take down the number on Mildred’s Buick, too. Just for argument’s sake. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will have spotted one or the other of those two vehicles in Agnes Ferman’s neighborhood Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

  Sue did as I suggested. “Where to now?” she asked, closing her notebook and sticking it back in her pocket.

  “Green Mountain Vista Estates.”

  “It sounds very upscale.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “Most of the time the more pretentious the name, the less impressive the community.”

  Following Mildred’s directions we drove straight there. People who live in downtown Seattle tend to be a bit parochial in their attitudes toward places beyond the narrow confines of the city limits. Suburbs of any kind are frowned on. In the case of Green Mountain Vista Estates, however, those antisuburban prejudices were right on the money.

  Green Mountain Vista—with nary a mountain in sight—w
as stuck down in a hollow that had probably been a wetland once—a wetland in the middle of someone’s farm. This wasn’t one of those new affordable-housing modular places where they truck in houses on wheels, put them down on concrete pads, and then drag the wheels away for good. No, these were old-fashioned mobile homes—with rotting tires still attached to wheels—in a development that had been grandfathered into the local planning and zoning codes probably because somebody was related to or a good pal of someone on the Snohomish County zoning commission.

  The trailer that belonged to Hilda Smathers was no better or worse than any of its neighbors, but it was a long way from perfect. A few ruined flower beds, rank with weeds, and a scraggly sprinkling of woebegone daffodils, testified to the fact that someone had once cared about the place in a way its current occupant did not. There was no car out front, however, and when we knocked, no one came to the door.

  Sue sighed. “So much for her staying home on her day off and catching up on chores. Come on. Tomorrow’s another day. What say we give up for the time being and head on back to the city in hopes of beating some of the Boeing traffic.”

  It didn’t work. By three o’clock, southbound rush-hour traffic was in full force. For a while, from Lynn-wood south, we were able to do all right in the express lanes, but once we hit Northgate, the diamond lanes petered out and we were stuck creeping along at a snail’s pace right along with everyone else. Most of the cars had lone occupants and were very clearly commuters, heading home—wherever that might be.

  All the way down the freeway from Everett, Sue and I had discussed the case. My mind remained focused on Mildred George, but somewhere between Northgate and the Montlake Bridge, Sue Danielson started making the gradual transition from detective mode back into motherhood.

  “If I ever decide to move to the suburbs ‘for my kids’ sake,’” she said, “just haul off and shoot me. Where we live now may be a dump, but I can make it home from downtown in just a little over fifteen minutes.”