J. Jance - Name Witheld

Without pausing to hear any possible objection on my part, Grace Highsmith disappeared behind a curtained doorway into a back room. I was tempted to follow her, but I didn't. That seemed rude. Besides, what could a sweet little old lady do-run out some back door and disappear? She remained out of sight for a matter of several minutes, but I did hear her making a phone call at one point. That was followed by a long period of silence. Just as I was beginning to worry that I'd been duped after all, she reappeared, carrying a purse and a ring of keys.

"Have you had lunch, Detective Beaumont?"

"Breakfast," I answered. "Just a little while ago, as a matter of fact, so I'm not very hungry…"

"I had my Cream of Wheat at six o'clock this morning, just as I always do, so I'm really quite hungry. Let's go up the street. I'll have a bite of lunch, and we can talk there."

"But what about the store?"

"Oh, that," she said dismissively. "It'll take our part-time clerk a little while to get here from Redmond, but don't worry about the store. We're rather informal here at times. I'll just turn over the sign. My customers know that someone will be back eventually."

Occasionally, it's better to go with the flow than to put up an argument. I would have preferred talking somewhere a little more private than a restaurant, but Grace Highsmith seemed so determined to do things her way, that I didn't object. After all, who am I to refuse a little old lady a bite of lunch?

On my way into the store, I had noticed a couple of restaurants in the immediate area. One-a tearoom-looking place-was almost directly across the street, while a Mexican food joint was about a block away. Instead of going into either one of those establishments, however, we walked past both to the next cross street, headed north for half a block, and turned into something that looked like a little cottage. It turned out to be a restaurant-Azalea's Fountain Court.

One look at the white-clothed tables inside told me this was a fine dining establishment rather than a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. A petite blonde stepped out from behind a grand piano in the foyer and greeted my companion by name.

"Your usual table today, Grace?" she asked.

The older woman frowned. "No, Shelley, I think we should have a booth today. The far one in the corner if it's available. Someone may be joining us."

I wondered at that. This had seemed like a spur-of-the-moment arrangement. Who could possibly be joining us?

We were led to a green plush banquette in the far corner of the cozy, plant-lined room. After dropping off menus, the blonde named Shelley disappeared, returning almost immediately with a glass of white wine and an extra place setting. No question. Around this place, Aunt Grace was a regular.

"Shelley," Grace Highsmith began, observing the niceties, "this is Detective Beaumont of the Seattle Police Department." She paused, seemingly for effect, letting the words sink in while she took a delicate sip of wine. "And this is Shelley Kuni, Detective Beaumont. She's the owner of this fine establishment."

"I'm happy to meet you," I said.

Shelley smiled. "Would you care for a glass of wine as well? This chardonnay is particularly nice."

"No, thanks. Just coffee for me," I answered. Shelley hurried off to get it.

The room was fairly small-four or five booths and about that many tables. The service bar with both wine and coffee was in the corner of the room, close enough for the conversation to continue while Shelley poured my coffee.

"Detective Beaumont can't have any wine because he's on duty, you see," Aunt Grace announced airily. "He's questioning me about a murder."

I glanced around the room. Fortunately, it was early enough in the lunch hour that we were the only patrons in the place when Grace Highsmith dropped that little bomb.

"No!" Shelley exclaimed. "Really?"

I nodded. The whole idea of wearing plainclothes is so that everyone you talk to won't necessarily know you're a cop. For everyone within hearing distance in Azalea's Fountain Court, my cover was totally blown.

Shelley set the cup and saucer in front of me. "Cream and sugar?" she asked smoothly as though the words murder and detective hadn't penetrated her consciousness.

"No, just black."

I suppose restaurant people have to be fairly flexible. Somehow, Shelley Kuni managed to act as though she were totally unperturbed by what Grace Highsmith was saying while at the same time seeming to hang on every word. It reminded me of a circus tightrope walker. "Whose murder?" Shelley asked.

"Don Wolf's," Grace answered at once.

"Not the one who-"

"Don Wolf!" I exclaimed, slopping half my coffee into the saucer. "How did you-?"

"Yes, exactly," Grace replied with a peremptory nod, cutting both Shelley and me off in midsentence. "The very one I told you about last week."

As if the lunch bell had sounded somewhere, several new sets of customers arrived in the entrance lobby all at once. Shelley hurried to meet them. There were at least two other separate dining areas in the restaurant. I don't think it was an accident that Shelley led all the new arrivals off to one of those, leaving our part of the dining room still relatively empty except for Grace and me.

I turned an accusatory stare on Grace Highsmith. "I told you I was investigating a death," I said. "I didn't mention the word murder. Not once. And I never mentioned the victim's name."

Grace smiled sweetly. "The murder part is strictly a matter of common sense," she told me. "After all, you are a homicide detective, aren't you?"

"But how is it you happen to know the victim's name?"

Over the rim of her wine glass, Grace Highsmith fixed her bright-eyed stare on my face. "What kind of detective are you? Do you even have to ask?"

I held her gaze with one of my own. "As far as I know, the victim's name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. It would indicate that you might possibly have inside knowledge-"

"Precisely," Grace interrupted. "I knew you'd catch on eventually. Statistically speaking, I understand that the perpetrator almost always knows his or her victim."

With impeccably bad timing, our waiter appeared just then, smiling cordially. "What will you have today, Miss Highsmith?" he asked. "Your usual?" She nodded. "Extra cilantro on that jalapeno grilled cheese on plain whole wheat?"

"Of course," Grace replied. "What's the soup?"

"Shelley's tomato basil. It's very nice."

"I'm sure it is," Grace said. "Soup then."

"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked, turning to me.

"Nothing," I said. "Just coffee."

"Very well."

He went away, disappearing silently around the corner into the kitchen as more guests showed up in the lobby and filtered into the room, gradually filling the other banquettes as well as some of the freestanding tables. It was an attractive, intimate dining room-totally lacking in privacy, and absolutely wrong for conducting a homicide interview.

Grace took another delicate sip of her wine then set down the glass. She glanced first at her watch and then at the front door as though awaiting someone's arrival. "I suppose we could just as well get started then. What is it you want to ask me?"

When we had first sat down, Grace Highsmith had placed her pocketbook on the table beside her napkin. Now, replacing her chain-held glasses on her nose, she opened the purse and peered inside before turning it at a fifteen-degree angle.

To my absolute astonishment, a small, stainless-steel handgun came spilling out onto the table. The gun was a compact. 32 ACP. It's a weapon I know, but up until then, I had seen only one. The new Seecamp autos are so popular that there's a fifteen- to eighteen-month waiting list at the factory for anyone who is interested in buying one. The. 32 ACP is a small, readily concealable gun most often used by police officers as a backup weapon.