by J. A. Jance
“I never had a sister,” he said, “and Marcia never had a brother. We were both only children. She was like a sister to me.”
“You stayed friends from then on?” I asked.
“More or less. You know how kids are. We had a big fight during eighth grade. I can’t even remember now what it was about, but we didn’t speak for most of that year. We patched things up once we got to high school, though. We were in journalism together, and our senior year we were coeditors of the KUAY.”
“That what?”
“The KUAY,” he repeated. “Queen Anne High’s weekly newspaper. That’s where I first got interested in journalism. Chris was there too. He did sports.”
“Chris?” I asked. “Who’s he?”
“Chris McLaughlin. Her first husband. You didn’t know about him?”
“No.”
“Well,” Max said firmly. “Christopher McLaughlin was a creep, the absolute scum of the earth as far as I’m concerned. I never could see what she saw in him other than sex maybe. He seduced her early on, the night of the junior/senior prom, as a matter of fact. She told me about it at the time, we were that close, and I worried that maybe she’d get knocked up. Of course, that was long before anyone knew she was a Downwinder.”
“A what?”
“A Downwinder. Haven’t you ever heard of them?”
I shook my head. “They’re the people who lived downwind from the Nevada Test Site during the late fifties, when they were still doing aboveground nuclear testing,” he said.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Marcia was staying out on her grandparents’ ranch when they set off a particularly dirty test. Unexpected winds blew the radioactive crap right across her grandparents’ land. Both grandparents eventually died of cancer. The doctors later attributed Marcia’s sterility as well as her female difficulties to that, although nobody’s ever proven it in court. You know how that goes.”
Max paused for a moment, then hurried on. “Anyway, that’s why it was so wonderful when Pete showed up with a ready-made family.”
“You said Chris McLaughlin was her first husband. What ever happened to him?”
Maxwell Cole snorted derisively. “Who knows? Who cares? Marcia left him in Canada and came back home. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. Her folks were absolutely delighted to think she had finally come to her senses and left the creep. They helped her get an annulment-that cost them a pretty penny-and they also helped Marcia get back into school at the university. They weren’t wild about Pete to begin with, but they got along fine with him eventually. If it hadn’t been for him, they probably would have missed being grandparents altogether.”
While Max was speaking, I began putting together a rough chronology. Max and I were almost the same age. That meant Marcia Kelsey and Chris McLaughlin were too. Back then there had been only one reason why someone of my generation would disappear into the wilds of Canada and stay there-the Vietnam War.
“So Chris McLaughlin was a conscientious objector?” I asked.
Max nodded. “So he claimed. How’d you guess?”
“It figures,” I said.
“Chris was one of the very early models,” Max continued. “He took off for Canada in 1967 and dragged Marcia along up there with him. He married her on the way, just to put a good face on it, I guess, but her folks were heartbroken.
“I still don’t know everything that went on while they were up there. Marcia and I were always close, very close. We told each other secrets that we wouldn’t share with another living human being, but she never talked to me about those years in Canada, not the details anyway. It must have been pretty bad. She hinted around about drugs and some kind of commune living arrangement. I’ll say this much for him. When it came to scuzzy low-life stuff, Chris McLaughlin was always ahead of his time.”
“So how did she meet up with Pete Kelsey?”
Max shrugged. “Kismet. Fate. Whatever you want to call it. I hadn’t seen her for almost three years when she just happened to drop by the house to say hello and to tell me that her annulment had been granted. She came by to say she was a ”free woman.“ Pete Kelsey was there that afternoon, giving my mother an estimate for a remodeling job she wanted done. As soon as they laid eyes on one another, Pete and Marcia hit it off. I’ve never seen anything like it, and Marcia was wild about Erin. You’ve heard of whirlwind courtships? Theirs took the cake. They got married three weeks to the day from the time they met. A justice of the peace married them right in this very room, here in front of the fireplace. I was the best man, and my mother was the matron of honor. We took care of Erin while they were off on their honeymoon.”
“It sounds almost too good to be true.”
“I think that’s what the Riggs thought at first, that Marcia had screwed up again.”
“Who are the Riggs?”
“Marcia’s folks. LaDonna and George Riggs. He’s retired now. They spend their winters in Arizona and their summers in Gig Harbor. Like I said, to begin with, they weren’t wild about the idea. For one thing, Pete wasn’t Mormon, and Marcia was, in name at least. She was always way too wild for her own good. She’s what they call a Jack Mormon. Much to her folks’ surprise, though, after the wedding, Pete didn’t raise the least objection to George and LaDonna taking Erin along to church with them. They ended up with a good Mormon grandchild after all. Erin is quite devout. She takes it all very seriously. She’s all set to go on a mission next year after she finishes her degree.”
“What can you tell me about their marriage?”
Max eyed me speculatively. “What did Pete tell you?”
“That it wasn’t all a bed of roses.”
“No, I suppose not,” Max agreed. “They’ve had their troubles just like everybody else, but what can you expect? They come from such different backgrounds.”
“What exactly is Pete’s background?”
“His folks divorced when he was very young. He was on his own by the time he was sixteen, so you can see how he and Marcia would be coming from opposite ends of the spectrum, with her family solid and stable, and his anything but. Anyway, they were both a little on the wild side when they got married, and I think maybe they both fooled around some on the side-Marcia more than Pete, perhaps-but that was always just surface stuff. Those were meaningless relationships. There was never anything that came close to breaking them up. Those two shared something very special between them, a real bond. I always envied them that.”
This was a somewhat different marital report card than the one we’d gotten from Pete Kelsey himself.
“So you knew about their so-called open marriage?”
Max looked startled. “Pete called it that?”
I nodded and Max drew a long breath. “I knew about it, as much as an outsider ever knows about those kinds of things, but like I said, those occasional dalliances didn’t mean that much to either one of them. They both cared about staying together, not only for each other but for Erin as well.”
“What if one of them did?” I suggested, letting a hint of Paul Kramer’s pet theory loose in the room for the first time. “What if one of those dalliances turned serious? Would Pete Kelsey have become violent about it?”
“You’re implying…No. No way. Not on your life.”
I heard what Max said, but declarations of that sort from good friends are to be taken with a grain of salt.
“Did you and Marcia stay close through the years?”
“Not so much lately,” Max admitted ruefully. “Pete and I have become good friends over the years, and we keep in touch. I try to go down to the Trolleyman every once in a while when I know he’s there. I tip back a pint of bitters, and Pete and I have a chance to shoot the breeze.”
“How long has he worked for the Trolleyman?”
“Off and on for as long as they’ve been open. He likes it, he’s good with the customers, and he’s dependable. They flex with him when he has a remodeling job.”
“What’s his background, do you know?”
“Not really. He came from Ottawa originally, I believe. When he did that work for my mother, he was just starting out and struggling. All he had then was his green card and a whole lot of talent. After he and Marcia married, of course, he became a naturalized citizen.”
“Where’d he go to school?”
“To college, you mean?”
I nodded and Max shook his head. “I know he went somewhere, but I’m not sure where. Started out as a history major and decided he didn’t like it. I don’t think he ever graduated. And for the kind of thing he does, he certainly doesn’t need a degree. His work speaks for itself. Believe me, he makes a very good living doing remodels when he feels like it. He can pick and choose his jobs, too. He’s a craftsman, you see, someone who understands wood. That’s rare these days.”
“What about Erin?”
Max’s face clouded over. “Erin’s one sweet kid, and she couldn’t have loved Marcia more if she’d been her real mother.”
“You’d say Marcia was a good mother then?”
“The best. Not according to her mother, maybe. Not in the old-fashioned motherhood-and-apple-pie sense. LaDonna Riggs still believes a woman’s place is in the home. I don’t think she ever approved of the fact that Pete did most of the cooking and cleaning. Marcia may have been sloppy as hell, but she was an interested mother, a concerned mother, and a smart one.
“She exposed Erin to the arts, to the kinds of plays and books and performances that most kids never have a chance of seeing. Marcia recognized Erin’s intelligence early on and encouraged her every step of the way. Erin finished up her undergraduate degree at the U-Dub here in Seattle in three years flat, and now she’s down in Eugene working on her masters in English lit.”
Max paused. “She’s my godchild, you know. Did anyone tell you that? She was almost two when I first met her, but Pete said she didn’t have a godfather because he’d never thought of it. I was deeply honored. It’s probably the closet thing I’ll ever get to being a parent, I suppose,” he added somewhat wistfully.
“Are you in touch with Erin?” I asked.
He nodded. “She writes to me at least once or twice a month. In fact, Pete asked me if I could go down and pick her up from the airport this morning and I hated to turn him down, but with this cold, I told him I’d better not. I wouldn’t want her to catch it.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Andrea Stovall?”
Max frowned. “Andrea Stovall,” he repeated. “It sounds familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place it.”
“The Seattle Federated Teachers’ Association,” I said. “Now does it ring a bell?”
He nodded. “That’s right. She’s the president, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Did Marcia ever say anything to you about her?”
Max paused to consider. “Wait a minute. Now that you mention it, I think I may have met her once at a Christmas party at Pete and Marcia’s. As I recall, I didn’t like her much. Dykish females tend to rub me the wrong way.”
“Dykish? She didn’t strike me that way, and I thought she was married.”
“Divorced,” Max answered. “A lot of times they get married, but it’s just for show and it doesn’t last. Don’t look so surprised, J. P. It’s not like they have to go around wearing a sign or something.”
An errant thought crossed my mind. “What about Marcia Kelsey?” I asked.
Now it was Max’s turn to be surprised. “Marcia? A les? No way. She was a fun-loving girl, all right, but strictly heterosexual. If that’s what you’re thinking, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
This time it was my pager that went off and interrupted the process. Max directed me to the kitchen phone, which was far enough away to be out of earshot when I called in, I was given Ron Peters’ number.
“There you are,” he said when he heard my voice. “Amy gave me strict orders to get in touch with you early today, but I’ve been stuck in a meeting all morning long. We just got out.”
“What do you need?”
“We wanted you to come to dinner tonight. Amy’s doing a pot roast. It should be good.”
A pot roast? Real home cooking? It was too good to resist. “What time?” I asked.
“What time can you make it?”
My after-work AA meeting would last from five-thirty to six-thirty in the basement of a downtown church across from Denny Park.
“Is seven too late?”
“No. That’ll be fine. See you then.”
Ron started to hang up, but I stopped him. “Wait a minute, Ron. There’s something I need some help with.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you remember hearing anything about a series of bomb threats at the school district office last fall?”
“Bomb threats? I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Me either,” I told him, “but they happened, and they didn’t get reported. What I want to know is who buried those reports and how they did it.”
“Sounds like something that’s right up my alley,” Ron said. I could hear a smile lighting up his face, an echo of the old enthusiasm leaking into his voice.
“That’s what I thought. By the way, don’t try checking directly with the Firearms and Explosives guys,” I warned. “We don’t want to get Sparky’s tail caught in a wringer on this one.”
“Don’t worry,” Ron Peters responded with a laugh. “I have my own sources, and I’ll be the soul of discretion. See you at seven.”
I left the phone and went back into Maxwell Cole’s living room. He was leaning back with his eyes closed. For a moment I thought he had fallen asleep, but he sat up as soon as he heard me pause in the doorway.
“Did Pete tell you about the harassing phone calls?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“And he told you that Erin had been getting them too?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible the phone calls and the murders are related?”
As a loyal friend of Pete Kelsey’s, Max was gently trying to lead me away from pointing an accusing finger in Pete’s direction. Under the circumstances, I probably would have done the same thing. He was also fishing for information.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I replied evenly, trying not to let any information slip into my words or intonation. “It’s much too early to speculate.”
“Well, I think they are,” Max declared forcefully, maybe trying to convince himself as much as he wanted to convince me. “When you find the person making those phone calls, you’ll find the killer. You mark my words.”
It always sounds so easy when somebody else says it. So easy and so simple. Saying it and doing it, however, are two entirely different things.
“Right, Max,” I said, picking up my coat and showing myself to the door. “We’ll have to see about that.”
We’ll just have to wait and see.
Chapter 14
When I stepped out onto the covered porch of Maxwell Cole’s Victorian home, it was such a relief to be out of the hot house that I thought at first it was much warmer. It wasn’t. I was just overheated from the inside out.
My growling stomach said it was lunchtime, and I listened. Rather than go back down the way I’d come, I decided to trek on across the summit of Queen Anne Hill to the upscale little business district at the top of the Counterbalance, the steepest part of the hill, where heavy weights had once been used to aid trolleys going up and down Queen Anne Avenue.
By eleven-thirty I found a comfortable chair in a trendy cafe called Apres Vous and was stuffing myself with a mouthwatering Tower Burger, named after the cluster of radio towers, including one still covered with Christmas lights, that had sprouted like three gangly weeds across the crest of the hill behind the restaurant.
I chewed my food and mulled over my conversation with Maxwell Cole. I couldn’t get beyond the uneasy sense that something was strangely out of kilter in what I was learning about Pete a
nd Marcia Kelsey. There was no one thing I could point to, no one blatantly obvious discrepancy, just an overall sense that what I had discovered about them so far was somehow dim and slightly out of focus. I couldn’t get a clear picture of either one of them.
According to Pete, the marriage had been wrong, at least as far as he was concerned, for a considerable period of time. Yet he hadn’t left. And if, as Max had told me, Marcia had flitted from one meaningless relationship to another, then it hadn’t been right for her, either. Yet something had compelled them to stay together. What was it? And did this elusive “something” have anything to do with the murders at hand? The only way to find out was to gather more information.
While downing my second and third cups of coffee, I wrote up a detailed report on everything I had learned from Kendra Meadows and an equally detailed version of Max’s interview. If Watty wanted reports, I’d plant my butt on a chair somewhere and give him reports until the damn cows came home.
Over dessert I studied my lists of things to do and people to see, both the ones I had made and the ones given me earlier that morning by Kendra Meadows. I tried to prioritize those things that needed to be handled first.
Speculating about Pete and Marcia Kelsey’s kinky marriage was intriguing as hell, but I didn’t want to be as guilty of neglecting Alvin Chambers as everybody else was. He was inarguably part of the puzzle. He was also equally dead, and Charlotte Chambers’ next-of-kin interview was still missing.
That at least was something I could fix, another little trophy I could lay on Sergeant Watkins’ desk to say what a good boy am I. And in keeping with my good-boy persona, I made one pro forma call to the department to check on whether Detective Kramer had turned up for his court appearance or if he would be joining me for the afternoon’s labors. Luckily for him, the son of a bitch was stuck in court for the remainder of the day and possibly for much of the rest of the week. I was free to work on my own for the afternoon with a totally clear conscience.
I walked out of the restaurant fully prepared to head back down to the department and check out a car to take to the North End. Instead, providence stepped into the picture in the guise of a battered Farwest cab.
