When they first saw the blood on my clothing both Sally and her daughter flinched away from me. Once we’d all been introduced, though, Sally went off to see what she could learn about her husband’s condition. I could see Mel watching Sue Ann as the two Kramer women walked away.
“That’s one reason I never wanted to have kids,” Mel said. “They always have to rebel against their parents. Her green hair must drive her father absolutely nuts. Think about it. If I’d ever had kids, they probably would have turned out to be Democrats.”
“Would that have been so bad?” I asked.
Mel scowled at me. “Of course it would have been bad,” she returned as though my question were too ignorant to answer. “Only a true independent could even think such a thing.” And then, after a pause, she added, “I may have to give up on you after all.”
Sally Kramer returned a few minutes later. “The doctors are resectioning his bowel, so it’s going to take time. Detective Monroe called while we were on our way here and told us what you’d done. Thank you, Mr. Beaumont. Thank you so very much.”
“It’s Beau,” I said. “And you’re welcome.”
Reassured that Kramer might make it, Mel was impatient to leave the hospital. “Since it’s going to be a while before we hear any more, let’s go home and change,” she suggested. “I’ll drop you off.”
As we rode down in the elevator and walked through the lobby, people caught sight of the blood and slunk out of our way as though we were carriers of some dreadfully contagious disease.
“Are we still on for the funeral?” Mel asked when she pulled up and stopped in front of Belltown Terrace.
“We can go,” I said, “but with everything else that’s going on, we probably won’t have a chance to talk to Raelene today. And I think I’m going to grab some shut-eye first. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Me, too,” Mel said. “I’ll call you at one, and I’ll be here to pick you up by one-thirty.”
I was too damn exhausted to argue. “Fine,” I said. “See you then.”
“Whooey, Mr. Beaumont!” Jerome Grimes exclaimed as he opened the door to let me into the lobby. “If you don’t look like you’ve been in a hell of a fight.”
I was too tired to venture that old joke about how bad the other guy must look. I was glad none of my fellow residents rode with me in the elevator as I went upstairs. Once in my apartment, I undressed and stood in a hot shower for the better part of twenty minutes. After that I fell into bed.
Good to her word, Mel called me at the stroke of one. “I’m just now leaving my apartment,” she said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I didn’t bother telling her to drive carefully. It wouldn’t make any difference. I was waiting in the lobby, dressed but barely conscious, when she pulled up half an hour later. “Sorry it took so long,” she said.
“For most people it is a thirty-minute drive,” I pointed out.
Mel gave me a look, and we headed for Saint Mark’s Cathedral. “Any word on Winkler?” she asked.
I shook my head. “He gave everybody the slip. When I last talked to Detective Monroe, she was still on the scene. They found Winkler’s boat, but they haven’t found him. They’re still looking. Detective Monroe says the crime scene folks are there examining the blood spatter. Her guess is that’s where Wink Winkler bit it. She also says it wasn’t a suicide.”
“His son pulled the trigger?”
“Presumably. Monroe wants us to get together with Kendall Jackson and Hank Ramsdahl after the funeral. I told her that would be fine.”
Mel nodded. “What about Kramer?” she asked.
“Sally says he’s finally out of surgery but not out of the woods. I told her we’d come by there later, too.”
“Good.”
The funeral was a long-drawn-out affair, but not nearly as crowded as I would have expected. Elvira Marchbank had evidently outlived most of her contemporaries. Tom and Raelene Landreth were there, sitting together in the front row. Tom had cleaned up reasonably well for the event, although, if you got close enough, you could tell he’d had at least a nip or two of Scotch to brace himself for the ordeal. Next to him, dressed in a black designer suit, Raelene looked genuinely bereft-far more so than she had appeared the day before, when I had spoken to her in her office.
A former governor, the head of the Seattle Symphony, and the director of the Seattle Opera all took to the podium to say how much of a difference Elvira and Albert Marchbank’s financial support had made to the social fabric of the city. At least that’s what I assume they said. I dozed through much of the ceremony and all of the music. I roused myself, though, when Tom Landreth strode to the microphone as the last of the speakers listed on the program.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Elvira Marchbank has always been part of my life. As you have heard today, she was an elegant, charming, witty woman. She was also one who knew her own mind and insisted on having things done her way. She set out detailed instructions for her funeral. She chose the speakers and the music. She has asked that her remains be cremated and scattered in the waters of her beloved Puget Sound. Even though she has left us, I can assure you that, through the Marchbank Foundation, the contributions she and Albert have made over the years will continue in perpetuity.
“It was Elvira’s wish that this day would end with a celebration of her life. So my wife, Raelene, and I would like you all to join us for food and refreshments at the Marchbank Foundation. It’s exactly what Elvira would have wanted.”
As people began to file out of the church, I wondered how different Elvira’s funeral would have been had Sister Mary Katherine’s murder allegations been made public. How many people would have been here, too, if Elvira had carried through on her stated intention to dissolve the Marchbank Foundation? Certainly the social movers and shakers had been in attendance out of respect for Elvira, but they were also there because they were looking for continuing financial support from those left in charge of the foundation-Tom and Raelene.
Mel and I were headed for her car when someone tugged at my sleeve. “Beau?”
I turned and was surprised to find Sister Mary Katherine and another nun standing behind me. The second woman was tiny, a good ten years older than Sister Mary Katherine. The somber occasion hadn’t clouded the merry twinkle in Sister Mary Katherine’s eyes.
“I’d like you to meet Sister Elizabeth,” she said. “She’s a good friend of mine. I believe I told you something about her, Beau. Before Sister Elizabeth took her vows, she was Maribeth Hogan. Many years ago she was my camp counselor.”
I remembered the story well-about how a camp counselor had looked out for Bonnie Jean Dunleavy during the terrible hours, days, and weeks after her parents died in the car accident. Somehow it came as no surprise that Maribeth, like her younger charge, had also become a nun.
“Yes,” I said. “I do remember. I’m glad to meet you.” The grip of Sister Elizabeth’s handshake was far stronger than I would have expected. “And this is a colleague of mine, Melissa Soames.”
“Are you going to the reception?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.
I nodded. “Me, too,” she continued. “For closure.”
I wasn’t at all sure I agreed that visiting the old murder scene one last time was necessary, but I kept my mouth shut. If Sister Mary Katherine and Freddy had decided closure was called for, who was I to argue the point?
“One more thing,” Sister Mary Katherine added. “I heard the terrible news about Dillon Middleton as I was driving into town this morning. That young friend of yours, Heather-is she all right?”
“She’s not all right now,” I said. “But she will be eventually.”
“Yes,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “She will. I’ll keep on praying for her. So will everyone at Saint Benedict’s.”