Long Time Gone Part 8

"Glad to see you," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to stay all night. Where to next, back home?"

"Let me check."

I called the number Mel had used much earlier when she had left her message. I could tell from the prefix that it was her cell. I wasn't at all surprised when she didn't answer.

"Sorry it took so long to get back to you," I told her voice mail. "I've been busy. I'm heading home now. Give me a call there later if you still want to see me tonight. Otherwise, we can talk tomorrow."

"Home, then," I told Mohammad.

Lots of people had evidently taken the day off. It was the middle of rush hour, but traffic was much lighter than usual. When we reached Belltown Terrace, I paid Mohammad what was on the meter and gave him another sizable tip. Jerome had another eager customer lined up and waiting the moment I stepped out of the cab.

I went upstairs. My body, especially my shins, were feeling a little worse for wear after my uphill run earlier in the day. I was looking forward to spending some quality clicker time in my recliner. Grateful to be rid of my boots, I tossed them into the entryway closet and pulled on a ratty but well-loved sweater. Naturally the phone rang the moment I sat down. It was Freddy Mac.

"What gives?" I asked.

"The roads are so bad up on Whidbey that Sister Mary Katherine decided to stay over last night, tonight, and maybe even tomorrow if things don't improve," he told me. "She had already checked out of her room before we had lunch yesterday. Most of the hotels were booked solid, but I was finally able to get her into a room at the Westin downtown. Since she was still around and since I had several weather-related cancellations, we went ahead and did another session today. I have one more tape to add to your collection. I think we're making real progress now, Beau. She exhibited far less resistance this time around, and she was able to uncover a few more telling details. Would you like to see the tape?"

"Absolutely."

"Where are you?"

"Belltown Terrace," I told him. "Second and Broad."

"I'm just now leaving my office up on Pill Hill. I could drop it off on my way home."

You won't find the name Pill Hill on any official map of the Seattle area, but it's what we call the area of First Hill that's full of hospitals and clinics. For all I knew, the place could have been crawling with hypnotherapists as well.

"Sure," I said. "I'll wait down in the lobby. That way you won't have to park and come in. I have some news as well."

"What's that?"

"The murder victim's full name-Madeline Marchbank. She was found stabbed to death in her bed in May of 1950."

"But Sister Mary Katherine said..."

"That it happened outside. I know. But she also said that the body and the blood were both gone when she came out of her hiding place. All that means is the killers moved the body and made it look like the attack happened inside the house."

"So it really did happen then!" Fred MacKinzie breathed.

He had been acting as if he believed Bonnie Jean Dunleavy's story all along, and he had convinced me to believe it as well, but right up until I told him Mimi's real name, Fred must have been hanging on to the tiniest shred of doubt.

"Yes," I said. "It really did."

"Did they ever solve it?" Fred asked.

"They may have," I said, "but there was no indication of an arrest or even a prime suspect in any of the material I read today. I'll be able to get into the official records tomorrow. My question to you is: Should I tell Sister Mary Katherine?"

There was a long pause before Fred answered. "I'm not sure what the best course of action is on that," he said. "Let me think about it on my way down the hill."

I shoved my aching feet into a pair of loafers and headed for the lobby. For the next twenty minutes or so I sat there listening to Belltown Terrace's weather wimps come and go, complaining all the way. When a sand-dollar-colored Lexus LX 470 pulled up on the street outside, I figured it had to be Freddy Mac's, and I was right.

I went out to the curb and stood under the canopy as Fred opened the pa.s.senger-side window. "When I called the Westin, Sister Mary Katherine was on her way down to the coffee shop for dinner. What say we go there now and tell her together-unless you're busy. If that's the case..."

"No," I said. "It's fine. Wait here while I run back upstairs and get a coat."

"Don't bother," Fred said. "The car's warm. And I'll bring you back here when we finish."

So off we went-him in his snazzy brushed camel sports coat and me in a disreputable sweater that I would have been embarra.s.sed to donate to Goodwill. I was feeling grungy as we followed the hostess through the Westin's brightly lit Corner Cafe, where Sister Mary Katherine was already seated in a booth.

She smiled at Fred as he walked toward her. When she saw me trailing along in his wake, the smile faded. "You didn't say you were bringing Beau with you," she said.

"That's because I didn't know I was," Fred said. "He has some news I thought you'd want to hear from him directly."

Sister Mary Katherine looked at me gravely and then said to the hostess, "I believe I'll have that gla.s.s of wine after all. Chardonnay, please."

The hostess looked questioningly at Fred and me. He ordered coffee with cream. I shook my head. "Nothing, thank you."

"What is it?" Sister Mary Katherine asked.

There was no point in beating around the bush. "Mimi's real name was Madeline Marchbank," I said. "She was murdered-stabbed to death-in the middle of May of 1950."

"And I watched it happen," Sister Mary Katherine confirmed quietly.

"I believe so."

"Were the killers ever caught?"

"That I don't know," I said. "Tomorrow I'll be able to access some of the official records I wasn't able to get to today. The material I've located so far came from newspaper archives, and it covered the story for only the first several weeks after it happened. During that time the investigators had developed no leads in her death."

"That must mean that I didn't tell anyone what I saw. Why on earth didn't I?" Sister Mary Katherine demanded accusingly. "Not telling is inexcusable."

Fred and I exchanged glances. No one who had heard the frightened little-girl voice of Bonnie Jean Dunleavy would have wondered why she had kept quiet or blamed her for her silence. "Have you viewed the tapes of your own sessions?" I asked.

Sister Mary Katherine shook her head. Fred was the one who answered aloud. "I still want what she remembers to be what she remembers," he replied. "I didn't want to layer in what she had already related on the tapes."

"You were scared to death," I said. "The woman threatened you. She said you'd end up like Mimi if you told anyone what you had seen."

But Sister Mary Katherine wasn't satisfied. "Still," she said disapprovingly, "keeping quiet about such a thing is unforgivable."

The wine and coffee came. Sister Mary Katherine took a careful sip before asking, "What do we do now? Clearly this Marchbank woman was once my friend. I want to know whether or not her killers were ever brought to justice. Certainly I owe her that much. It's the only way to atone for my silence back then."

I wanted to tell her to give the poor little kid she had once been a break, but Fred cut me off before I had a chance.

"What do you know about forgotten memories?" he asked me.

"Not much. It usually happens with kids who have been s.e.xually molested, right?"

Fred nodded. "Most of the time. But it can also have to do with some other early childhood trauma. Beau, you're focused on the crime aspect of all this. My job has to do with helping Sister Mary Katherine rid herself of the nightmare that's been robbing her and her nuns of their good night's sleep. You've been able to verify some of the details of what happened and where. If we can compare additional details with what's been buried in Sister Mary Katherine's subconscious all this time, we may be able to bring it back into her conscious memory as well. Hypnosis is fine as far as it goes, but in my experience, dealing with the memory consciously is what it's going to take to break the nightmare's hold."

"But how?" Sister Mary Katherine asked.

"Do you have the exact address where Madeline Marchbank was living when she was murdered?" Fred asked.

"I don't have it right this minute," I told him. "But I can get it tomorrow once I can access official case files. By then I'll be able to have vehicle licensing records as well. Why?"

"I have appointments in the morning, but it might be helpful if you could drive her through her old neighborhood-past the house where she lived-to see if there's a chance that recognizing familiar ground might be enough to cause a breakthrough in her memory barrier."

Sister Mary Katherine shook her head. "I doubt Mr. Beaumont has either the time or the inclination to drive me around my old neighborhood."

I remembered what Harry had said. Busying myself with the good sister's difficulties would keep me from interfering in Ron's situation.

"You're wrong about that," I said. "In fact, there's nothing I'd rather do. Give me a chance to get into the official records on the Marchbank case. I'll also make copies of all the material I found today. Once I have the information I need, I'll call and make arrangements to drive you to Mimi Marchbank's former residence. By the way, when are you planning to head back to Whidbey?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," she said. "Weather permitting," she added. "But believe me, if I need to stay longer, I will. I'm ready to put an end to this problem, and so is everyone else at Saint Benedict's. In fact, they may be even more ready than I am."

My cell phone rang. "Beau?" Mel Soames asked. "I thought you said you'd be home all evening. I'm at your place, but the doorman said you took off."

"Sorry. Something came up, but I'm only a few minutes away. I'll be there shortly."

I ended the call and turned back to Sister Mary Katherine. "I have to get back home. Give me until midmorning to gather information, then I'll call you and we can figure out what to do next." As I stood up, so did Fred. "You don't have to leave," I told him. "I'm sure I can catch a cab."

"No, I said I'd take you home," he insisted, "and I will."

"I didn't expect her to be so hard on herself for not telling someone what she had seen," I said to Fred as we waited for the valet to return Fred's Lexus. "She couldn't have been more than four years old when the murder happened."

"She's spent forty years as a Catholic nun," Fred said. "I suspect you don't do that without having a well-developed sense of responsibility for the state of humanity."

"I suppose you're right," I told him.

With the lift from Fred, I was back at Belltown Terrace within ten minutes of Mel Soames's phone call and found her waiting in the lobby. She was bundled in a long black leather coat complete with scarf, gloves, and boots. She surveyed my sweater and loafers with visible disdain. "You did take off in a hurry."

"As I said on the phone, something unexpected came up."

"How unexpected?" she asked. Her tone of voice was sharper than it should have been, and it put me on edge. So did the icy look on her face. I've finally learned that seeing an expression like that on a woman's face usually means bad news for any man dumb enough to remain in close proximity.

The front door opened and a group of people, sharing a laugh, tumbled into the lobby. They were all drenched in snow, having just been through some kind of killer s...o...b..ll fight. All of them seemed to be having a very good time. Their high spirts and easygoing banter stood in stark contrast to Melissa Soames's dour expression.

"Maybe we should talk about this upstairs," I suggested. "In private."

She nodded. "You're right," she agreed stiffly. "Privacy is probably a very good idea."

CHAPTER 8.

MOST OF THE TIME when people walk into my twenty-fifth-floor penthouse apartment, they are so agog at the wall-to-wall windows and amazing views that they're momentarily struck dumb. I doubt Mel Soames even noticed the view. Blue eyes blazing, she rounded on me the moment I shut the door.

"What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?" she demanded.

Seeing Melissa Soames that angry was a daunting sight. I was pretty sure I knew what she meant, but I decided to play dumb anyway. "What are you talking about?"

"About your going to Ron Peters's place this afternoon, as if you didn't know!" she exclaimed. "Didn't Harry give you strict orders to keep your nose out of it?"

"Tracy called me," I said in my defense. "She's seventeen. Her dad had just been hauled off for questioning in handcuffs, her mother had gone to meet with a lawyer. She called me asking for help. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be a teenager in circ.u.mstances like that?"

"You'd be surprised," Mel returned.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?"

"Obey orders, for starters," Mel shot back.

"Who told you I had been there?" I asked the question more to get her off track than because I wanted an answer.

"Does it matter?"

My first guess was easy. Based on my latest meeting with Amy's sharp-tongued sister and her obvious low opinion of me, I a.s.sumed Molly Wright to be the probable squealer. "It doesn't matter at all," I said. "Now, are you going to stay awhile? Would you like me to take your coat?"

Mel seemed to consider. With a resigned shrug, she removed her gloves, stuffed them into a pocket, and then slipped out of the coat, folded it and laid it down beside her.

"Something to drink?"

This was a bluff, of course. I don't keep booze in the house and only a limited supply of sodas.

"Coffee," she said. "I'm working."

Fortunately, I do keep a supply of Seattle's Best Sat.u.r.day Blend beans in my freezer. "I'll be right back," I said. "Make yourself comfortable."

Once the coffee was started, I came back into the living room. By then some of Mel's temper had worn off. Like everyone else, she had gravitated toward the expanse of western-exposure windows and had settled on the window seat.

"If you're working, where's Brad?" I asked.

"His wife called. Their pipes are frozen. She needed him to come home."

"One of the joys of home ownership," I said.

"You know how it's going to look, don't you?" she asked.

"Your being out working on your own?"

"No, your going by Ron Peters's place. It's going to look like you went there to give Ron inside information on what's going on in our investigation-information that you can then hand over to that slick attorney of his who, as I understand it, also happens to be your attorney of record."

"Look, Mel," I said patiently. "I tried to explain this to Harry this morning. Ron and I have been friends for years. Ditto Ralph Ames. The three of us have shared a lot of ups and downs over that time. It's only natural that Ron would turn to Ralph when he was in need of legal representation. Besides, how could I give Ron information I don't have? I know Rosemary Peters died over the weekend, but Ron himself told me that. I know blood was found in Ron's car. Amy told me that. And I heard there had been some kind of family altercation that caused suspicion to point at Ron."

"Where did that come from?"