Long Time Gone (18 page)

“Yours?” I asked.

She nodded.

“They’re very good,” I told her. She flushed slightly at the compliment.

“Thank you,” she replied. “Painting is the only thing that keeps me from running the streets. Help yourself to a chair. How do you take your coffee—cream and sugar?”

“Black, please,” I told her.

Faye Landreth ducked into the tiny galley kitchen while I made my way to a comfortable leather couch at the far end of the combination living/dining room. On the end table next to where I took a seat stood a gilt-framed eight-by-ten photo of a handsome young man wearing his United States Marine Corps dress uniform.

“Your son?” I asked as she handed me a mug of coffee.

Faye nodded. “Timothy,” she said. “Timothy Acton Landreth. He’s been gone for a long time now—ten years. It’s the old story,” she added. “Drugs and booze. He went through treatment a couple of times, but he just couldn’t get his act together. That’s why I keep this particular photo—because he looks so good in it. Being a marine was the best thing that ever happened to him. After that, life was all downhill.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She smiled. “I know. So am I. I wanted to help him, but I just couldn’t. He’s why I’m talking to you now, though. I wouldn’t do it while Timmy was still alive. Things were tough enough between him and his father. I didn’t want to do anything that would make their relationship worse, but now…”

I was impatient. I wanted Faye Landreth to move on to the subject of Mimi Marchbank and how she had known I would be asking questions about that long-ago murder, but good sense won out. Like Sister Mary Katherine, Faye had kept whatever she was going to reveal secret for a very long time. I’d be better off waiting for her to relay the information in her own fashion and in her own good time rather than trying to rush her into it.

“You’re a widow, then?” I asked finally.

“A widow?” she repeated, then laughed outright. “Hardly. I’ve been divorced for years. In fact, Tom announced he was leaving the night before our thirtieth anniversary. He left the house that night and married his secretary, Raelene Jarvis, the day the divorce was final. His second wife, Raelene, happened to be two years younger than Timmy.”

“Which probably didn’t do much to improve father-son relations,” I suggested.

“No, it didn’t,” Faye agreed. “Tim stopped speaking to his father then and there. I always hoped they’d reconcile, but they never did. And I kept quiet because…” She paused and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I had been quiet for so long by then that it didn’t seem to make much difference. After Tim died, though, I told myself that if anyone ever did get around to asking me about what happened, I was going to tell what I knew.”

“Which is?”

Faye sighed. “Tom and I had to get married,” she admitted.

I’d already figured that out on my own. “I know,” I said. “May 13,1950. Harrison Hot Springs, British Columbia.”

She gave me a searching look, then continued. “I was sixteen. He was nineteen. Tom’s father was furious.”

“That would be Phil Landreth, Albert Marchbank’s partner?”

“Yes. Tom’s dad wanted him to go to college and then on to law school, but that wasn’t possible, not with a wife and baby to support. Against his parents’ wishes, Tom dropped out of college and went to work for his grandfather—his mother’s father—as a manager in his car dealership.”

My ears pricked up. “Car dealership? Which one?”

“Crosby Motors,” she said. “It was a Ford agency up on Aurora Boulevard.”

I thought about those two brand-new Fords—the one that had gone to Sean Dunleavy and the other that had gone to Wink Winkler. Was that where they had come from—Crosby Motors?

“The dealership’s been gone for years now,” Faye went on. “Grandpa Crosby made a nice piece of change for himself, first when he sold the agency, and then later, when he sold the land itself. By then, Tom had enough management experience that Phil and Albert hired him to work in their company.”

“With the radio stations?”

Faye Landreth nodded. “Tom worked for Albert, who managed the overall holding company. Other people managed the stations themselves, but it wasn’t just radio. Albert Marchbank saw the coming boom in television very early on. He moved from radio broadcasting to television without ever missing a beat. Everybody connected to the company made money, Tom and me included.”

“Sounds like Tom was in the right place at the right time,” I suggested.

“It wasn’t all luck,” Faye Landreth said. For the first time I heard the bitterness in her voice.

“What was it?” I asked.

“They weren’t there,” she said.

Faye’s sudden segue caught me off guard. “Who wasn’t there?” I asked.

“Albert and Elvira,” Faye answered. “In Harrison Hot Springs. I know the newspaper notice said they came to our wedding, but that wasn’t true.”

“And what about your folks, Faye?” I said. “Did they suddenly become the proud owners of a brand-new 1950 Ford? It seems like someone was passing them out for free right about then.”

She ducked her head. Finally she raised it defiantly and looked me full in the eye. “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, they did.”

“From Crosby Motors?”

She nodded.

“Who bought it?”

“I don’t even know. Does it matter? My folks needed a car. All I had to do for them to have one was keep my mouth shut.”

“Which happened to give Albert and Elvira Marchbank an unbreakable alibi for murder,” I added.

“I’m not proud of what I did, but yes.” Her voice was very small.

“And you never told. Why not?”

“For one thing, I was scared to death of Albert. I think Tom was, too. If the man was willing to stab his own sister to death right there in broad daylight, what kind of person was he? And I don’t think Elvira was much better than Albert. They were both ruthless people. The problem was, Tom told me that keeping quiet about what happened made us all accessories after the fact to what they had done—my parents, too. He said we’d all be held responsible for Mimi’s murder, every bit as much as the people who actually stabbed her.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because Timmy’s dead,” Faye Landreth said. “Tom’s parents are both gone now, and so are mine. If somebody wants to arrest me for my part in the cover-up, so be it, but it would have been wonderful if they had put Elvira on trial for murder, convicted her, and hauled her off to prison.”

“But she’s dead now, too,” I said.

Faye nodded. “I know,” she said. “I saw it in the paper this morning.”

“And so is a man named William Winkler. Wink Winkler was the detective who investigated Madeline Marchbank’s murder back in 1950,” I added. “Investigators think he committed suicide within hours of Elvira Marchbank’s fatal fall. According to my count, that doesn’t leave behind very many people from back then. If the people are gone, so are all the witnesses.”

“Except for me,” Faye volunteered. “I would be one; Tom’s the other.”

“You’re suggesting that your former husband might be involved in all this?”

“He was involved in 1950,” Faye said. “Why wouldn’t he be involved now?”

“And if he were to go to jail because of his involvement? What then?”

Faye Landreth smiled. “That would be his problem, now wouldn’t it. His problem and Raelene’s.”

I don’t remember who it was who said “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and all that jazz, but he must have had someone like Faye Landreth in mind. She had waited almost a quarter of a century to lower the boom on her philandering ex-husband and his new wife. Now she was doing it—in spades.

“Any idea where I could find Tom Landreth about now?”

“He’s retired. He still lives in our old house over in Medina, but I hear he likes to hang out at the clubhouse at Overlake Golf and Country Club, even when it’s too cold to play golf.”

“And Raelene?”

“She’s the breadwinner now. Still works full-time.”

“For the Marchbank Foundation,” I said.

Faye nodded. “Interesting that she’d manage to fall into a job like that, wouldn’t you say?”

I didn’t know Tom Landreth, but I felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He had walked away from his marriage vows all those years ago thinking that he was getting off easy. He must have thought all the divorce would cost him would be whatever the presiding judge decided he owed his ex-wife in terms of property settlement and alimony. He was about to find out those were small sums in comparison to the price Faye Landreth prepared to extract from him now. She was going for his jugular. If what she said was true, he deserved it, but right at that moment, the poor unsuspecting bastard had no idea it was coming.

Woman scorned, indeed!

W
HEN I LEFT FAYE LANDRETH
’
S CONDO,
I was floating on air. Suddenly I had a legitimate suspect—someone who had been involved in the aftermath of Mimi Marchbank’s murder back in 1950. Considering the part Tom Landreth had played in the cover-up, it seemed reasonable to assume that he might have some compelling motive for keeping the names of the real perpetrators in that case from surfacing.

For one thing, Faye had told me that with Tom retired, Raelene’s job as executive director of the Marchbank Foundation now provided a major portion of the family’s income. Elvira Marchbank and, to a lesser extent, Tom Landreth, had participated in Mimi’s murder. Once that news leaked out, the Marchbank Foundation and Raelene’s plush little job would both be doomed. Bad publicity and nonprofits do not go together. People don’t like giving money to organizations whose founders or current managers are caught doing bad things—and murder is a pretty bad thing.

Before I interviewed Tom Landreth, I needed to interview his wife. Detectives Jackson and Ramsdahl had asked Raelene about what she had seen and heard on the day Elvira Marchbank died. I wanted to ask about Tom Landreth. I also needed to collect a Kevlar vest. My current one had been hauled off in the trunk of the 928 when the tow truck took it away, but there was an old one still gathering dust in my hall closet. When I tried to put the damned thing on, I was sure it had shrunk. I was struggling to fasten it when the phone rang.

“Jonas?” Beverly Jenssen asked.

I was instantly awash in guilt. I had promised to call this morning and had neglected to do so. “Beverly,” I said. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Weak,” she said. “Still sleeping a lot of the time.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get by the hospital to see you…” I began.

She cut me off. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I was asleep there, too. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if you’d been there.”

Just because Beverly seemed to be giving me a free pass didn’t mean I deserved one. And it turned out it wasn’t free after all.

“I was hoping, though, that I could talk you into coming up to our place for dinner tonight.”

“Are you sure you’re up to having company?” I asked. “I mean, if you just got out of the hospital…”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Jonas. It’s no trouble. I’m certainly not going to cook. We have to go down to the dining room to eat. Besides, I have something to show you—a surprise.”

Having been remiss in not stopping by the hospital, I knuckled under immediately. “Of course,” I said. “What time?”

“The dining room starts serving at five-thirty. We usually go early, but anytime between then and eight o’clock will work, so whenever you can make it will be fine.”

“I’ll see you as close to six as I can.”

“Good,” she said. “We’ll be expecting you.”

I left Belltown Terrace hoping like hell I wouldn’t forget.

I drove to the University District and pulled up in front of the two neighboring houses. Several other large houses in the neighborhood had all been carved up and converted into low-cost student-style apartments. Only these two buildings seemed to have retained some of their single-family-dwelling identity and elegance.

Of the two houses, then, I supposed that Mimi Marchbank’s would have been in far better shape, but considering what had happened in the driveway of that house on that May afternoon, why had the Marchbank family kept it? And why had they purchased the house next door? That was a puzzle.

On this particular morning, the front door of Elvira’s house was barred by a band of yellow crime scene tape. Next door the Marchbank Foundation was a beehive of activity. A noisy carpet-cleaning van was parked outside and two people were hard at work washing windows.

I made my way up the paved brick walkway, past the black-ribboned wreath hanging on a porch post, and through the front entrance, where I was instantly headed off by a young receptionist.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re closed today. There’s been a death…”

I pulled out my ID and badge. “I’m looking for Mrs. Landreth,” I said. “Is she in?”

“Well, yes, but she’s very busy. The funeral is tomorrow afternoon and we’re going to host the reception here after the services. Ms. Landreth is making all the arrangements.”

“I still need to talk to her,” I said. “Would you please let her know I’m here.”

“One moment,” the receptionist said and disappeared into an inner office.

From the looks of the name-brand artwork and lavish furnishings, it was clear no one at the Marchbank Foundation was concerned about pinching pennies. Raelene Landreth, when she appeared, was a petite, well-preserved babe in her early fifties who looked as though she’d never been forced to pinch personal pennies, either. She wore what I calculated to be a size 3 dress tastefully accessorized with several size 10 diamonds. The circumstances of the second Mrs. Tom Landreth appeared to be quite a step up from those of her predecessor.

“I hope this won’t take long, Mr. Beaumont,” she said. “I’ve already spoken to two other detectives. Since I’m working on funeral arrangements today, I’m really quite pressed. And losing her is such a shock. Elvira was one of those people you thought would be around forever.”

“What I need shouldn’t take long,” I said.

Sighing and pursing her lips, Raelene showed me into a plush office that was as ultramodern as the lobby was. She directed me to take a seat in a low leather chair that may have been ergonomically correct but was hard as hell to get in and out of.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“You mentioned that the foundation is making Mrs. Marchbank’s funeral arrangements?” I asked.

“I’m making all the arrangements,” she corrected. “Elvira had no remaining family. She and Albert never had any children. The foundation itself is their real legacy. So the funeral will be at Saint Mark’s Cathedral at two o’clock in the afternoon. We’ll be hosting a post-funeral reception here.”

“I see,” I said, putting the chitchat aside. “Now, would you mind telling me what you remember about Wednesday afternoon?”

Raelene’s facial expression didn’t change. “I already told the other officers,” she said. “Nothing much went on Wednesday afternoon. The last time I saw Elvira was around noontime, when I went next door with some papers for her to sign. I didn’t find out what had happened to her until much later that night, after I got home.”

“Was there anyone here with you that day?”

“No. I was here by myself. Mindy was gone, too. Mindy’s the receptionist you saw outside. Her son had an appointment with the dentist.”

“And you saw and heard nothing unusual?” I asked.

“No. Not really.” Raelene paused. “Well, that nun was here. Sister Mary something. I don’t remember her exact name.”

“Sister Mary Katherine,” I supplied.

“Yes. That’s the one. She showed up in the middle of the afternoon. She gave me her business card from some convent up on Whidbey Island and said she wanted to see Elvira. Lots of people think that just because we’re a charitable foundation they can waltz in here, say ‘pretty please,’ and walk away with a fistful of money. The fact that we’re a charitable
arts
foundation goes right over their heads. I explained to Sister Mary Katherine that we have an official application procedure for giving grants and that, for the most part, churches don’t qualify. She said she didn’t want our money. When I tried to inquire what she was really after, she went back to insisting she needed to speak to Elvira in person.”

“What happened then?” I asked.

“Nothing. She left. She did seem…well…agitated, somehow. Upset. I worried about whether or not she was some kind of nutcase, but then she left on her own.”

“Did you see her go next door?”

“To Elvira’s place?” Raelene asked. “No. Certainly not. Did she?”

“Yes. She saw Elvira being driven up to her door, so she went over and rang the bell.”

“She had no business doing that. Elvira should have called me,” Raelene said stoutly. “Nun or not, I would have come over and sent the woman packing.”

“What happened after Sister Mary Katherine left here?” I asked.

“I finished up what I was working on. When five o’clock came, I went out to the spa for a massage and my regular mani-pedi. It was when I got home from there that the cops showed up with the news that Elvira was dead. As I said, it was a terrible shock. She had been perfectly fine when I saw her earlier in the day.”

“But no one else came by—a man named Wink Winkler, for example?”

Momentary confusion washed across Raelene Landreth’s face. “I know Mr. Winkler, of course,” she said. “But he didn’t stop by here.”

“He was seen across the street,” I said. “He could have come here or he could have come to Elvira’s.”

“He didn’t come here!” Raelene was surprisingly adamant about that.

“And how exactly do you know him?”

“His company, Emerald City Security, has handled burglar-and fire-alarm equipment and security monitoring for the Marchbanks and their companies for as long as I can remember,” Raelene said. “Since before I went to work here, certainly.”

Makes sense,
I thought.
First he gets that Ford convertible, followed by half a century’s worth of employment. Not bad for hush money, but if Wink did that well, how did Tom Landreth score?

“You’re aware, then, that shortly after being seen exiting a taxi out in front of this building, Mr. Winkler senior committed suicide?”

“Yes. I heard about it from his son, Bill. He called to let me know. Bill and his father were estranged, you see. Still, it was a shock, especially coming on the heels of what had happened to Elvira.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe Mr. Winkler was responsible for what happened to Elvira?”

Raelene looked startled. “What are you saying? I talked to the other detectives. They indicated that it looked like Elvira slipped on a magazine, that her death was entirely accidental.”

“What if it wasn’t?” I asked. “What if Mr. Winkler pushed her and made it look like an accident? Then he went out and blew his brains out?”

“That’s crazy,” Raelene said. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. So why don’t you tell me about your husband.”

Raelene’s expression hardened slightly. “What about him?”

“Was he close to Elvira?” I asked.

“Very,” she said. “Tom was the son Elvira and Albert never had, and he worked in the business his whole life—up until he retired a few years ago.”

“And how long have you worked here?”

“Just over ten years. Elvira finally reached a point where she didn’t want to work so hard. Sifting through the grant applications and working on fund-raising got to be too much for her. She was glad to relinquish some of the responsibilities, and I was here to pick up the slack.”

“Did Elvira ever mention her sister-in-law, Mimi, the one who was murdered out here in your driveway in May of 1950?”

The abrupt change of subject was calculated. I wanted to see Raelene’s reaction. My use of the word “driveway” was also deliberate. The official story had always claimed that Madeline Marchbank had died in her bedroom. Given the layout of the building, that room could well have been the one where we were sitting now—Raelene’s ultramodern office.

Raelene took a deep breath. “Madeline,” she corrected. “Her name was Madeline, not Mimi.”

Not as far as Bonnie Jean Dunleavy was concerned,
I thought.

“Her death at such a young age was a tragedy that never went away,” Raelene declared. “She was several years older than Tom, so my husband knew of her rather than knowing her directly. From what I’ve been told, Madeline was a kind, thoughtful, hardworking girl. Devoted to her invalid mother. Just an all-around nice person.”

If Raelene knew the truth about Mimi’s death, her coolly measured response was nothing short of an Emmy Award–winning performance. On the other hand, her lack of reaction could have come from her never having been apprised of the real story to begin with.

“If Madeline’s death was so hard on everyone, why didn’t the Marchbanks ever sell this place?” I asked. “It seems to me they would have unloaded it at the first opportunity.”

“Because they wouldn’t have gotten what it was worth,” Raelene said promptly. “Once prospective buyers know something bad has happened in a house, property values drop like a rock. Their strategy was to keep this one. They also bought up the house next door. Albert and Elvira remodeled that one and lived there, then they turned this place—the old family home—into company offices for Marchbank Broadcasting. When company growth necessitated a move downtown, the foundation took over this space.”

“Thus keeping it all in the family,” I said.

If Raelene heard the snide undercurrent in my statement, she ignored it. “I suppose,” she said.

“I’d like to speak to your husband,” I said, once again changing the subject. “Is he available?”

“He’s certainly not here,” she said defensively. “As I told you, he’s retired. Besides, why do you need to talk to him? He wasn’t here. He didn’t even see Elvira on Wednesday.”

“You said Tom was like a son to Elvira—the son she never had. Does that mean he’s a beneficiary under her will?”

That provoked a reaction. Raelene’s dark eyes flashed fire. “What are you implying?” she demanded.

“I’m asking the usual questions,” I said. “When someone dies unexpectedly and under somewhat mysterious circumstances…”

“The detectives said she
fell
!” Raelene insisted. “There’s nothing
mysterious
about it.” She stood up. “Now I think it’s time you left,” she said. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Thank you,” I said, allowing myself to be booted out of her office. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t mean it.

I went back outside feeling as though I had landed in a nest of vipers. In 1950 a brutal murder had occurred right there, within mere feet of where I was standing. A conspiracy of silence surrounding that murder had held for more than fifty years. Now, due to Sister Mary Katherine’s revelations, that silence was crumbling under its own weight—and yet another person had died in the house next door.