Authors: JA Jance
Hugo Monford looked at Mel. “I understand you have an audio recording of the incident?”
Mel nodded. “Do you want to hear it now?”
Ron Peters, dressed in his uniform, was clearly the top-ranking officer in attendance. When he nodded his assent, Mel turned on the recording and played it. The roomful of detectives listened in stunned, multijurisdictional silence while Faye Adcock’s own voice cleared three of their current cases—two homicides and a suicide—and Monica Wellington’s cold case as well. The other cases, even Delilah’s, may have belonged to them. Monica Wellington’s was all mine.
When the recording ended, Ron nodded toward the still-open windows. The heat pump was doing a great job of keeping up, but the room was still chilly.
“Faye Adcock opened the windows?”
I nodded. “I made sure no one else has touched them.”
Ron turned to Detective Hill and issued an order. “I want someone from CSI up here right away to dust for prints on that handle. And let them know they are not to make a mess on the window seat!”
In due time CSI techs came and went, and eventually the windows got closed. The detectives left in a group, with Monford and Anderson headed for Brian Ainsworth’s home in Ballard to bring him up-to-date on this latest development. At last Mel, Ron, and I were the only ones left.
“Do you want me to send officers over to Leavenworth tomorrow to talk to Monica Wellington’s family?”
I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, but no. Mel has the day off. She says she’ll drive me. It was my case. I need to be the one to give Hannah Wellington the news.”
“What about the situation with Delilah’s family?” he added. “I understand that her funeral is scheduled for Wednesday and that her husband has specifically requested that there be no fallen-officer trappings to her service?”
“That’s correct,” I said. “Brian Ainsworth said that people Delilah worked with are welcome to show up, but he’d prefer that they did so in civilian clothing rather than in uniform. I asked to serve as an honorary pallbearer in hopes of calling out the killer. It turns out that’s no longer necessary, but that’s what I’ll be doing all the same.”
Ron Peters glanced questioningly at my nearby walker. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”
“As I said, I’ll be honorary only,” I assured him. “I’ll be carrying all the blame. Somebody else will have to do the physical lifting.”
Ron was too good a friend to try telling me it wasn’t my fault. We both knew better.
I
slept like a brick that night. It could have been because no one came in to check my vitals. It could have been because the bedroom got so warm in the process of heating the open-windowed living room that it was simply toasty in there. It could have been because I had seriously overdone it in the course of the day. It could have been because Monica Wellington’s homicide was finally put to rest. It could have been because Mel was in bed beside me. Or it could have been all of the above.
Whatever the reason, I slept. When I awoke feeling surprisingly rested in the morning, I found myself with a severe craving for something like pancakes or waffles, swimming in a lake of maple syrup.
Marge came into the bedroom, handed me a cup of coffee, and immediately disabused me of the notion that I could choose my own menu. Pancakes and waffles were deemed to contain far too many carbs and not enough protein. Besides, she was already making sausage and eggs.
Mel came back down the hall from her bathroom. She was dressed, made up, and ready to rumble. “It’s about time you woke up,” she said. “PT in half an hour.”
I put off showering until after PT. Instead, I dressed myself in an appropriate set of sweats and used the canes to take myself into the dining room for breakfast.
Marge observed my arrival at the dining room table with a grudging nod of approval. “Not bad,” she said, “especially considering you’re just one week out.”
I accepted her comment as high praise and tucked into my sausage and eggs. I prefer my eggs over easy. Marge’s eggs of choice were definitely over hard, but the eggs appeared fully cooked, as if by magic, and I did not complain. Instead, I expressed sincere thanks and ate as directed.
“I talked to Ron while I was getting dressed,” Mel said. “Seattle PD has hammered out an agreement with King County and Sammamish that says they won’t be releasing any details until midafternoon. That gives us time to get to Leavenworth and talk to Monica’s mother before the media bombshell drops.”
I knew Ron Peters had probably had to talk like a Dutch uncle in order to make that happen, and I was grateful for that, too. “We’ll head out as soon as I finish PT.”
There’s nothing like waking up alive the day after being held at gunpoint to induce a permanent attitude of gratitude.
During PT I noticed that, with Ida Witherspoon’s help, taking one turn around the running track wasn’t nearly as challenging as it had been the day before. And I’m happy to report that my range of motion had improved by a tiny margin as well.
After Ida left, I showered—on my own this time—and got dressed. I chose a charcoal gray suit, a plain white shirt, and a subdued blue-and-gray-striped tie. When it comes time to talk to a grieving family member, it’s best to look the part.
Mel came into the bedroom and watched in amazement as I used the strange sock-applying gadget to put on my compression stockings. My ankles were still a little swollen from the previous day’s long car ride, but they weren’t nearly as bad as they had been.
“Canes or walker?” Mel asked as we started out of the unit.
“Both,” I said, “just to be on the safe side.”
I walked out to the elevator using the canes, but I was glad to know she was dragging the walker along just in case.
This time I opted to ride in the far roomier Mercedes. When we drove out of the underground parking lot, it was into the bright sunlight of a crisp autumn day. As we drove across Lake Washington on 520, the water, mirroring the sky, was a deep shade of blue. We drove up 405 to Woodinville and then out to Highway 2. We were both subdued and we didn’t talk much. Notifying families is serious business, and I was worried about what I would say. I hoped that reopening Hannah Wellington’s decades-old wound might also offer some measure of comfort.
We had no difficulty in finding Hannah’s cozy home—little more than a cottage—on Benton Street, two blocks north of the highway. I hadn’t called ahead, so she wasn’t expecting us.
We found her dressed in a pair of child-size Oshkosh overalls, raking leaves inside her minuscule front yard. The last time I’d seen her, both in real life and in the dream, she had worn her hair long and straight. It was white now, and braided into plaits that wrapped around her head like a crown. She was as straight and upright as ever. I guess the best way to put it would be unbowed. Whatever life had thrown at her, this was a woman who had borne up under it with determination and grace.
Hannah quit raking when the car stopped out front. She stripped off her gloves and stood waiting while Mel came around to the passenger side to help me out of the car. With a wary glance at the somewhat bumpy terrain, I opted for the safety of the walker over the supposedly more decorative canes.
“I’m not sure you remember me, Mrs. Wellington,” I said, as we made our slow way up the grass-covered walkway. “My name is J. P. Beaumont. This is my partner, Mel Soames.”
There wasn’t so much as a moment’s hesitation on Hannah’s part.
“You were much younger then, but you’re the detective who came to Monica’s funeral,” she said at once. “I heard from detectives working the case off and on for a few years, but it’s been so long now that I thought surely you had all forgotten about me completely.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “We haven’t forgotten about you, and we haven’t forgotten your daughter. We have some news for you today. Do you mind if we go inside?”
She put down the rake and turned to lead us inside. The living room was small and neat and furnished with frayed furniture that was longer on comfort than it was on style.
The walls were peppered with a collection of photos, and I took some time to survey them. The older pictures were of a girl and a boy together. From the looks of the hairdos and clothing, I pegged those as most likely being of Monica and her brother. There were what were clearly high school photos of both of them as well as a collection of a new generation of Wellington grandchildren, many of them featuring photos with Santa and elves.
I was relieved to see that life hadn’t come to a complete stop for Hannah Wellington after her daughter’s death. Monica’s life had ended but the family had gone on without her. There were new people added into the mix—new children; new holiday traditions; new graduation photos; new wedding pictures. These were all things Monica never knew and could never be a part of.
Hannah followed us into the living room and motioned us onto the couch. Then she took a seat in a rocking chair. It was only by rocking forward in it that Hannah’s feet touched the floor. That hit me hard. She and Faye Adcock had to be almost the same size.
“What news?” Hannah asked. She wasn’t looking for niceties; she didn’t need anyone softening the blow.
“We believe we’ve found your daughter’s killer,” I said quietly. “The problem is, the man who did it died years ago, and his widow committed suicide last night.”
Hannah’s face was utterly devoid of expression as I delivered the news. “Tell me, then,” she urged quietly. “Tell me all of it.”
I told almost the same story I had told Detective Hill the night before. Hannah heard me out without comment and without shedding a single tear. I didn’t hold that against her. I don’t believe she didn’t cry because she didn’t care. I think it was because she had cared too much for far too long.
When I finally finished my painful recitation, I settled back on the sofa and the three of us sat in silence for the better part of a minute.
“That’s it, then?” Hannah said at last.
I nodded.
“I always thought that knowing who did it would somehow make me feel better,” Hannah murmured. “It doesn’t, you know.”
I wanted to say, “Closure isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be,” but I didn’t. I nodded, and the silence thickened around us once more.
“And this woman claimed Monica was having an affair with her husband?”
“That’s what she said.”
Hannah hadn’t taken her eyes off me the whole time I was speaking. Now she let her glance stray in Mel’s direction.
“You’re a police officer, too?” she asked. “He said you were his partner.”
“I’m a special investigator,” Mel answered. “So we are partners, but we’re also husband and wife.”
“That’s what Monica wanted to be eventually,” Hannah offered. “A cop. Her father wouldn’t have approved, of course, so she didn’t start out with criminal justice as her major her freshman year, but she probably would have changed over to it eventually.”
That one hurt. Monica had been my case. How was it that I had missed finding out she had wanted to be a cop? I felt my ears redden at the scope of my singular failure. I had been new on the job, but I should have done more. Pickles Gurkey and I should have done more.
I wanted to say I was sorry, but Hannah was still talking.
“Monica was always such a good girl,” she said. “She was someone who played by the rules because she thought the rules were important. I can’t imagine her having sexual relations with a married man. I just can’t.”
Of course we all knew that Monica had been pregnant at the time of her death. That meant that somewhere along the way she had turned away from playing by any number of rules. When it comes to that, parents are always the last to know.
Leaving that painful topic behind, Hannah turned away from Mel and looked at me again, squarely. I could barely stand to meet her gaze.
“So when will all this come out?” she asked. “When will the news reporters learn about the woman who committed suicide and her connection to Monica’s case?”
“Later this afternoon, most likely,” I said.
“I suppose they’ll be talking about Monica’s death then, too?”
“I would imagine,” I offered. “Someone may very well want to interview you about it. We wanted to give you some warning in advance of the media onslaught.”
She looked down at her grubby overalls and the tiny work boots. “I suppose I’d better go change my clothes, then,” she said. “I should put on something a little more respectable.”
Mel and I took that as a sign of dismissal. We stood up to take our leave.
“Oh, my goodness!” Hannah exclaimed. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners. I didn’t even offer you something to drink.”
“We don’t need anything, Mrs. Wellington,” Mel said, holding out her hand. “Nothing at all. And I hope you understand that we’re both terribly sorry for your loss.”
Hannah gave us a tremulous smile. It was as though that one small gesture of sympathy on Mel’s part had somehow cracked through her reserve.
“Yes,” she said softly. “The hurt of losing a child never goes away. I always keep a candle burning at the church in Monica’s memory. Once I get out of these clothes and into something decent, I’ll go over to the cemetery and put one on her grave as well. I’ve always been grateful for that, by the way, that at least her body was found so we had something to bury.”
“You had two young boys to thank for that,” I said. “They made the call at no small cost to themselves.”
“I don’t believe I remember that,” Hannah said with a frown. “Who were they? What were their names?”
“Two brothers, Donnie and Frankie,” I said. “One of them is dead now. He died in a car accident several years ago. We interviewed the other one, Frankie, yesterday afternoon.”
Hannah nodded. “Donnie and Frankie,” she said. “Very well, then. I’ll light a candle for each of them as well.”
We left the house. Mel must have understood how drained I was because once we were in the car, she immediately suggested that we stop for lunch before heading back to Seattle.
We drove around town for a couple of miles, soaking up the faux Bavarian atmosphere before settling in for burgers and fries at a local brew house. Once the waitress put our baskets of food in front of us, I opted for another pain pill.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a notification where the mother didn’t cry,” Mel said, as she swallowed a bite of French fry.
I had to agree. “Me, neither,” I said.
“And out of everything you told her, the only thing she objected to was the idea that her daughter had been carrying on with a married man. I suppose that’s to be expected, though,” Mel added. “I’m sure my mother thought I was a virgin on my wedding night. You and I both know that wasn’t true either time.”
It was a joke, a tiny attempt at humor in the face of a very grim errand, but I couldn’t laugh it off. There was something about Hannah’s reaction that still niggled at me, too. Something about it wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
We had finished our burgers and were getting ready to return to the car when I finally figured out what was wrong.
“Why did she do it?” I said.
“Probably just horny,” Mel said.
“No, I’m not talking about Monica,” I said. “That’s not what’s bothering me. What set Faye Adcock off?”
“She said it was because you were reopening the case, and Mac MacPherson was threatening to blackmail her.”
“Why didn’t she just call his bluff? It wasn’t like she could be charged with committing Monica’s murder.”
“Right,” Mel agreed. “The most she could be charged with was being an accessory after the fact, but that might be a stretch.”
“So what did she have to lose?”
And then suddenly, with a click, I knew. I knew as surely as if someone had flipped a switch and sent a surge of electricity pulsing through my body. Faye hadn’t murdered two people in cold blood and then committed suicide to keep from having to pay some kind of phony blackmail attempt from Mac MacPherson. Everything she had done, including flinging herself to her death, had been done to protect someone else.
According to Occam’s razor, the right answer is always the simplest answer, the one requiring the fewest assumptions. In this case that could mean only one thing.
“We have to get back to Seattle,” I said, pushing away from the table. “We need to talk to Faye Adcock’s son.”