THE COFFEE MACHINE CAME TO LIFE IN THE KITCHEN. That meant Alan Dale was up and at ’em in the other room. Leaving Mel to the unusual luxury of sleeping in, I eased out of bed, showered, dressed, and then ventured out to face the day. I collected the leash and Lucy so we could do our first walk. Sam and Billy Bob had already departed by the time we got downstairs, but seeing their empty alcove made me realize I needed to replenish the supply of cash in my pocket. Sam had helped me find Naomi, and that in turn had led to finding Petey as well. Petey might have been deceased, but he’d been found, and that meant that promised reward went to Sam as well.
On the way back upstairs, I stopped off in the lobby. On the doorman rotation, Sunday was Bob’s day off, but I left word that I needed to talk to him the next time he was in.
“Breakfast?” Alan asked, standing at the stove, spatula in hand.
“Not today, thanks,” I told him as I walked over to the coffee machine and punched the button. “Mel’s still sleeping, and I’ve got an appointment later on for either breakfast or lunch, depending on traffic.”
“I got in touch with that funeral home on Queen Anne,” Alan said as he slid eggs out of the frying pan and onto a plate.
“And?” I asked.
“They told me not to worry—that they’ll handle it, starting with arranging transport. I’ve got an appointment early this afternoon to stop by and choose a suitable urn.”
“When you’re there, have them call me so I can give them my credit-card number.”
He started to voice another objection, but after a look from me he gave it up as a lost cause.
Walking into the family room, coffee in hand, I checked my watch. It was just past seven. Ellensburg is right around a hundred miles from downtown Seattle. On a good day in good traffic, it’s an easy two-hour trip. On a Sunday in Snoqualmie Pass, heavy traffic is always a possibility, and that increases the chances that a wreck of some kind will be added to the mix. I’d expect Detective Caldwell if and when I saw her, and not a moment earlier. Rather than turning to my crossword puzzles, I got out my phone and dialed Todd Hatcher’s number.
“How are things down on the farm?” I asked when he answered.
“It’s a ranch, not a farm,” Todd corrected. “We raise horses.”
“And fresh vegetables,” I put in. “I’ve seen Julie’s garden. She definitely raises vegetables.”
“Okay, you’ve got me there,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I need some help.”
“Data mining, I presume,” he replied. “Who do you want me to look into?”
“Three people,” I said. “Agnes Mayfield, currently deceased but formerly of West Seattle. Lenora Harrison, Agnes’s daughter, who’s married to a guy named Isaac Harrison. They reside in Bellevue. And finally Suzanne Nishikawa, who’s the CEO of a company called Highline Development.”
For the next several minutes, I gave him an overview of the case—all of it, including the fact that both Naomi and Athena happened to be blood relations of mine, something I’d been leaving out of my previous briefings on the situation.
“So your primary concern isn’t the homicide so much as it is making sure that Athena isn’t being cheated out of what’s rightfully hers?” Todd asked when I finished. “You’re not working the homicide?”
“No,” I said. “Detective Lucinda Caldwell from Kittitas is running that show.”
“Okay, then,” Todd said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“There’s one more thing,” I added. “Do you happen to have a handwriting expert in your bag of tricks?”
“Maybe, why?”
I explained my concern about the validity of those quitclaim signatures.
“I’ve got someone in mind,” Todd told me. “His name is Joseph Stallings. If Joe’s available, I’ll have him give you a call.”
Todd was as good as his word. Sunday or not, Joseph Stallings called me back a mere ten minutes later.
“Mr. Beaumont?” he asked. “Joe Stallings here. I understand you have some concerns about possibly forged documents?”
“Call me Beau,” I said. “And yes, I do.”
I scanned the three documents I’d obtained from Linda Collins and texted them to him, and then I returned to my crossword puzzles. I had finished one and moved on to the next when Joe called back.
“My initial look-see suggests that all three of these were signed by the same person, but there are some hesitations and an absence of fluidity that make me think you might be right and the signatures could be forgeries. Do you have any other samples of Mrs. Mayfield’s handwriting?”
I thought about Hilda Tanner, still in possession of a key to Agnes Mayfield’s abandoned house. “I don’t have any at this moment,” I said, “but I have an idea where I can lay hands on some.”
“Good,” he said. “If you’re able to do so, send them along. You already have my number.”
I thought about calling Hilda Tanner but decided against it. Just because I was up at this ungodly hour didn’t mean everyone else was. Instead I went to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee. When Alan showed up with Athena snuggled in the crook of his arm, I made a cup for him, too, and then we all headed into the family room. I think Alan was ready for a little adult companionship. Lucy came along as well, sinking to the floor near Alan’s feet. Since Mel had not yet appeared, I figured now was as good a time as any to have “the talk.”
“You’ve never had a substance-abuse issue, have you?” I said.
“Who, me?” Alan asked with a laugh. “Nope, not me, not ever.”
“I have,” I told him, “and one thing I can tell you for sure, drunks and druggies are all alike, and they lie like crazy. They dish out all kinds of commitments and promises and don’t keep any of them. They’ll say whatever they have to in order to get back into your good graces, and once they are? You’re screwed.”
“What are you saying?”
“When Mel and I came home last night, you were on cloud nine because Naomi had called you and actually apologized. Good for her, but please don’t believe everything you hear coming out of her mouth right now, and don’t put too much store in it either. For your sake and for Athena’s, too,” I urged, “don’t get suckered into believing there’s going to be a some kind of magic reconciliation between you and Naomi or an instant cure for her substance-abuse issues. If Naomi wants back into your life or Athena’s, she’s going to have to earn it.”
“How will she do that?”
“These days there are plenty of inpatient treatment options. They generally last for six weeks or so at a minimum. If Naomi is ready to make some serious changes in her life and agrees to go into treatment, I’ll help her get admitted and pay the fare, but she’s the one who’ll have to do the work.”
Alan shook his head. “Naomi sounded so sincere last night, and I was hoping—”
“I know you were,” I told him. “That’s why we’re having this chat. Believe me, it’s every bit as much for me as it is for you. You have a lot more time and effort invested in Naomi than I do, but she’s mine now, too, and I want to help.”
“Okay,” Alan agreed finally. “I’ll keep that in mind.” That’s what he said, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.
Mel appeared in the doorway of the family room. She was fully dressed and made up and looking like a million bucks. She was also carrying a cup of coffee. “Good morning, everybody,” she said cheerfully, “how’s it going? Or should I say good afternoon?”
Together Alan and I updated Mel on everything that had happened so far, with one minor exception. He didn’t mention our little talk, and neither did I. Detective Caldwell called about then. She was stuck in the pass behind a jackknifed semi and probably wouldn’t be out of the resulting backup for another hour at least.
“Tell you what,” I said to her. “Since the last place Petey Mayfield was seen was West Seattle, why don’t we meet up there. I’ll spring for Sunday brunch at Salty’s on Alki Beach, and then I can show you exactly where all this played out.”
“Wait,” Mel said, “if you’re going to Salty’s, I’m tagging along.”
The phone wasn’t on speaker, but Lucinda Caldwell heard her voice. “Hi, Mel,” she said, “and good-o. See you both when I get there. I’m setting the GPS right now.”
We were in the car and winding our way up through the garage levels when Mel aimed her icy blue-eyed inquisitor’s stare in my direction. “Okay,” she said, “tell me. What are you really up to?”
“We’re going to go pay a visit to Hilda Tanner.”
“Your source of information for all things Agnes?” she asked.
“That’s right. Todd’s handwriting expert needs some more samples of Agnes’s handwriting. If they exist, Hilda is the one person who can get them for us.”
“Fun,” Mel said. “Exactly what I want to do on my day off—work one of your cases.”
The strange thing is, I knew she was telling the truth. Mel’s a cop after all, and there’s nothing she likes better than solving cases, day off or not. That’s why when I knocked on Hilda Tanner’s door half an hour later, Mel was at my side.
“Who’s there?” Hilda demanded from inside the house.
“J. P. Beaumont,” I told her. “I brought my wife along. Her name is Mel Soames.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Oh, all right.”
I heard her collection of locks being unlatched. When Hilda opened the door, she was once again wearing the apron I’d seen her in before—the old-fashioned one with the same telltale bulge in the pocket.
“What kind of favor?” Hilda asked, but her customary pugnacity was missing. She seemed strangely subdued.
“Did you hear that they found Petey?” I asked.
Hilda nodded as her face twisted into a somber grimace. “It’s terrible. One of the neighbors saw it on the news first thing this morning and called to tell me. She said his case is being treated as a homicide. I can barely believe it. It almost makes me grateful Agnes is gone. Knowing that Petey had been murdered would have broken her heart.”
With that, Hilda stepped away from the door. “Come on in,” she said.
As Mel and I entered the room, a whole herd of cats made a mad scramble for parts unknown, with the notable exception of Rocky, who maintained his regal pose in the middle of the dining-room table, regarding us with disdain and objecting to our unwelcome presence by lashing his long tail back and forth.
“First off,” I said taking a seat, “I need to say thank you.”
“For what?”
“Because you supplied Agnes’s hairbrush, we’ve been able to confirm that she was Athena’s paternal great-grandmother.”
At that point Hilda Tanner burst into tears. Eventually she dredged a used Kleenex out of the same apron pocket that held her .22. She mopped her damp eyes with that and blew her nose as well.
“Oh, my,” she said finally. “Agnes would have been over the moon about that. She really wanted a great-grandbaby, you know. Hang on just a minute. Let me get something.”
Hilda used the walker to lever herself erect, then clumped off into another room. When she returned, there was a small tissue-wrapped package resting in the basket between the handles on her walker.
“They’re the wrong color, I know,” she said, handing me the package. “I made them last fall when that poor girl was there all alone. I planned on giving them to her once the baby came. I had no idea the city was going to run her off the way they did.”
I opened the package and found myself staring down at a pair of tiny blue booties. I was incredibly touched, and it took a moment for me to make my voice work.
“How very kind of you,” I managed at last. “Thank you. I’ll be sure Athena gets them.”
“You’re welcome,” Hilda said, grabbing her walker and stomping back to her chair. “Now, what about that favor you wanted?”
“My client is Athena’s maternal grandfather, so I’m working on his behalf and also on hers. It has come to my attention that there may be some irregularities in the paperwork that transferred Agnes’s property over to her daughter. In order to determine that, I need a sample of Agnes’s handwriting.”
Hilda Tanner was nobody’s fool. “The lots, you mean?”
I nodded.
“That witch Lenora was trying to cheat Petey out of his share, wasn’t she!” she declared, and it wasn’t a question.
“That’s one possibility,” I admitted.
“All right, then,” Hilda said, grabbing her walker and prying herself erect again. “Let me get the key to her house. I can give you a whole bunch of samples.”
“You can?”
“You bet. Agnes didn’t believe in all this newfangled online-banking nonsense, and neither do I for that matter. Like me, Agnes preferred writing out the checks herself. And again, just like me, she kept her bank statements with copies of her canceled checks for the whole seven years, the way the IRS says you’re supposed to.”
“Do you know where she kept them?”
“Of course I do,” Hilda snapped at me. “Our houses are exactly alike. Agnes kept her statements in the same place I keep mine—in the coat closet by the front door. Come along, you two.”
And come along we did. Hilda set off at a determined pace. Mel and I followed her down her wheelchair ramp and across the street. When we got to Agnes’s front steps, I handed the walker off to Mel while I helped Hilda up and onto the porch. Just inside the front door, Hilda dove into the coat closet and pulled out a precarious stack of seven shoe boxes. All of them were neatly labeled with numbers from one to seven. Hilda extracted the box marked with the number one and passed it to me. Once I opened it, I discovered it contained exactly six bank statements.
“If Agnes was having dementia issues, who helped her with all this filing?” I asked.
“That would be me,” Hilda admitted. “She kept worrying about running out of money, even though I kept telling her she wouldn’t, but for the last year or so I helped Agnes pay her bills. I also balanced her checkbook.”
“You wrote the checks?” I asked.
“She couldn’t fill in the information the last few months, so I did that for her, too, but she’s the one who signed them.”
“And June is when the last of these statements came in?”
Hilda nodded. “Lenora swooped in and took her away just a couple of days later. After that she must have changed the address. I kept checking her mailbox for a while after that, but it was always empty.”
Without electricity, the light inside the house was too dim for the job, so I went outside and sat on the top steps while I sorted through the contents of the envelopes one at a time. There were two automatic deposits made each month—Agnes’s Social Security check and another, smaller one that was evidently a survivorship benefit from her late husband’s pension. Taken together they didn’t add up to much, but obviously they’d been enough, because there was always a slightly larger balance remaining. The days of banks sending back actual canceled checks have gone the way of the buggy whip, but the scanned copies showed a total of a dozen or so transactions each month. They always amounted to less than the amounts deposited. What was jaw-dropping was the six-figure balance remaining in the account each month—close to two hundred thousand dollars according to the June statement.
Mel and Hilda had followed me outside.
“Did you know that Agnes had this much money in the bank?” I asked Hilda, pointing to that six-figure balance.
“Of course I did,” she said. “I told her she shouldn’t just leave it sitting in a checking account like that—that she should start a savings account or buy a CD or do something with it, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
Considering the value of the four lots as well as the balance in the checking account back in June, Agnes Mayfield’s estate would have totaled close to a million dollars. Maybe Lenora Harrison could refer to an estate that size as “a pittance,” but most people wouldn’t, especially Alan Dale.
I took the time to scan each page of copied checks into my phone, sending them along to Joseph Stallings as I did so. The thing is, you didn’t need to be a handwriting expert to see how far Agnes’s signature had deteriorated between the statement sent for January and the one for June. In January the words were still fairly readable. By June all that remained was an illegible scrawl that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the signature on the notarized quitclaim that had been dated August 1. Someone had signed that document in front of a notary public, but it sure as hell hadn’t been Agnes Mayfield.
And that led to only one conclusion: Whatever Lenora Harrison had been up to, the folks at Highline Development had been in on it, too. If Petey had threatened either of them with exposure, he had most likely signed his own death warrant. That meant that it was high time for me to pay their CEO, Ms. Suzanne Nishikawa, another visit ASAP, and I fully intended to bring an active-duty homicide cop along for the ride!