"I suppose. Where?"
"The shop."
"All right," she said. "If for some reason I can't make it, how can I reach you?"
"Leave word with Latty," I said.
"Thank you," Suzanne Crenshaw said. "I'll see you then."
By the time I put down the phone, Kramer was looking daggers at me. I didn't bother to explain what had gone on. Obviously, he'd learned just enough to piss himself off by listening to my side of the conversation. In the meantime, Grace Highsmith had left her chair. She came over to my end of the couch. Taking a lace-edged hanky out of her pocket, she began dusting Dusty.
As her fingers absently polished the uneven planes of metal, there was an air of finality in the gesture-almost as though she were saying goodbye. When she finished, she put the scrap of handkerchief away and turned to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"In the last few months, I had pretty well decided to leave this house and everything in it to Latty. I suppose that's all out the window now. I wonder how much of a criminal defense a signed and numbered Fraser will buy in this day and age? Defense attorneys don't come cheap these days, do they Detective Beaumont?"
"No, ma'am," I said. "They certainly don't."
"I'm forgetting my manners. I offered you both tea, and I still haven't-"
"No, thank you. Again, you don't need to bother with the tea. Detective Kramer and I were just leaving. Your attorney specifically requested that we not talk to you any further without her being present."
"And you're meeting Latty at the shop?" Grace asked.
I nodded.
"Would you like me to be there at the same time?" Miss Highsmith asked.
"No," I said. "We'll contact you later on."
"All right, then, Detective Beaumont," she agreed. "Whatever you think is best."
I caught a glimpse of Paul Kramer's face when she said that. He looked as though he was about ready to blow a gasket.
Grace led us to the door and held it open, shivering as the lake-dampened air chilled the room. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Detective Beaumont, would you mind bringing in another log? I can usually manage just fine, but right now…"
"Sure," I said. "I'd be glad to."
Hurrying out to the woodpile, I selected another ten-inch log, carried it back inside, and shoved it into the fire. As the new log dropped into place, the burning one disintegrated into a shower of sparks and glowing coals. A disapproving Kramer eyed this whole procedure from just inside the front door.
"I believe we're in the middle of a burning ban, Miss Highsmith?" he said, while I dusted crumbs of dirt from my hands. "Aren't you worried about that?"
"Oh, no," Grace answered at once, peering up at him through her tiny glasses. "Burn bans only apply if you have some other source of heat. I don't. My father was a very stubborn man, you see. When I was growing up, we had a dairy farm and orchard over where Magnolia Village is now. Mother and Father bought this place as a summer cabin when the only way to get here was to ride across the lake on the Kirkland Ferry. Coming here each year was a major expedition. Father insisted that a summerhouse shouldn't need central heat, and he refused to install a furnace. My parents argued about it for years, and my sister Florence and I continued that battle long after our parents were both gone. A few years back, when I decided to retire here, I made up my mind to leave the house just as it was. Now I'm glad I did. On a day like today, there's nothing quite as comforting as the flames from an open fire."
"No, ma'am," a suddenly subdued Detective Kramer agreed. "I don't suppose there is."
Seventeen
I could see Kramer was fried as we huffed our way back up Grace Highsmith's stairs to the car. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he demanded. "Since when do we conduct police business based on the whims and schedule of the suspect's goddamned defense attorney?"
"Since I gave my word, that's since when," I responded. "And let me remind you, the suspect is entitled to representation. That's the law. Weren't you the guy who was telling me, just a little while ago, that rules are supposed to apply to everybody?"
I don't think Paul Kramer liked having his words spouted back at him. He yanked open the Caprice's driver's-side door, threw himself inside, and then slammed the door shut behind him. I climbed in on my side, matching slam for slam.
"You don't give a shit if we solve this mess or not, do you?" he growled, starting the car and mashing it into gear. "It doesn't matter to you if Captain Powell is bent out of shape. It's no skin off your nose if we're up to our eyebrows in a case that involves a dozen high-profile folks from the mayor's main squeeze to some dotty old lady member of the Board of Regents to a murder-weapon-buying former head of the Washington State Patrol."
"What do you mean, it's no skin off my nose?"
By then, Paul Kramer's pot of seething resentment had come to a full boil. "It's all a game for you," he fumed. "You don't care if you ever get promoted or not. And whether or not we solve this case in a timely fashion is no big deal to you. For guys like Sam Arnold and me, though, it is. For us, it's real life. My getting a promotion means the difference between whether or not my wife can trade in her old station wagon for a newer car. It determines if we'll be able to put money aside for our kids to go to college. You can be a high-flying playboy all you want, Beaumont. Just stop pretending to be a cop to the detriment of everyone around you."
Pretending to be a cop? I could barely believe my ears.
"Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You think I'm deliberately trying to blow this case? That I agreed to schedule Latty Gibson's interview around her attorney's availability out of some kind of spite? To keep you and Sam Arnold from getting credit and making the next promotion list?"
Kramer, driving hell-bent for election through downtown Kirkland, looked straight ahead and didn't reply, which, in itself, was answer enough. When we paused for a stoplight, I opened the door.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Kramer demanded, as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
"What does it look like?" I growled back. "I'm getting the hell out of the car before I end up wrapping the steering wheel around your damned stiff neck. The interview with Latty Gibson is at two o'clock at Dorene's Fine China and Gifts on Main Street in Old Bellevue. See you around."
With that, I slammed the door shut and walked away. For a few seconds after the light changed, Kramer sat there in the Caprice, honking and gesturing for me to get back in the car. When frustrated drivers behind him started honking at him in turn, he finally gave up and drove off, shaking a fist at me as he went by.
Looking around, I found I was somewhere in downtown Kirkland. If you're a true Seattleite, that phrase sounds like an oxymoron. The buildings along the main drag of Western Washington's "little Sausalito" are low-rises-long on art galleries and trendy restaurants and short on much of anything else. I started to look for a phone, thinking I'd have to call for a cab, but surprisingly enough, when I reached the stoplight, a Metro bus pulled up beside me. I dashed over to it and pounded on the door.
"Hey, in case you haven't noticed, this isn't a bus stop," the brown-and-gold-clad driver observed as he opened the door. "The next stop is two blocks down."
I flashed a badge in his direction.
"Where are you headed?" I asked.
"Bellevue Transit Center."
"Is that anywhere near downtown Bellevue?" I asked.
The driver shook his head, rolled his eyes, and motioned me aboard. "It's right in the middle of downtown Bellevue. Get in, will you? We're holding up traffic."
As the diesel-powered bus rumbled along, I sat there stewing over Kramer's totally unfounded accusations. What nerve, calling me a playboy cop! I was no such thing. Maybe I wasn't the world's best team player, but then again, neither was Kramer. I was absolutely offended by his thinking that I would deliberately undermine a case for any reason, whether to spite him or even just for the hell of it. I wanted closed cases every bit as much as he did. Maybe even more than he did.