J. Jance - Name Witheld

"Actually, it does. Especially in a confession."

Grace frowned. "I'm afraid I don't remember exactly. I must have been too upset at the time."

That was the moment when, as far as Grace Highsmith's so-called "confession" was concerned, the whole thing fell apart. In twenty-plus years of being a cop, I've been compelled to use deadly force on occasion. Each and every time, I've been what Miss Highsmith would have termed "upset," but I've never had the good fortune of forgetting even one incident. I remember them all-in vivid, bloody color and in heart-stopping detail.

Instead of mentioning that, I patted the pocket in which I had deposited the Seecamp. "Where did you get the gun, Miss Highsmith? I happen to know this particular weapon is very popular, and there's a minimum of a year-long wait to purchase one of these new from the factory."

"That I simply won't tell you," Grace declared. "A gentleman friend of mine gave it to me, and I'm not about to involve him in this tawdry business. He's a very nice man and doesn't deserve to have his name dragged through the mud."

By then, Suzanne had eaten her way through the grilled salmon. The waiter took her empty plate and then stopped by with a fully loaded dessert tray. It contained the usual things one expects to find in a place like that-fresh mandarin orange sorbet, double chocolate cheese cake with a Bailey's Irish Cream mousse, a coconut mousse tart, and a caramel apple cake.

Suzanne took the chocolate mousse. When the waiter looked at me, I started to shake my head. "Oh, please join us for dessert at least," Grace insisted. "You must have something. It'll do you a world of good. Try the cake. It's my absolute favorite. That's what I'm having, along with a cup of decaf."

I'm a sucker for anything with caramel on it, so I knuckled under. "All right," I said.

When the cake came, it was nothing short of delectable. The single layer of rich, moist cake was covered by a caramel sauce and topped by a dollop of whipped cream. Grace Highsmith broke off a tiny forkful and put it in her mouth. As she did so, her eyes misted over for the first time.

"I don't suppose they'll have desserts like this in the King County Jail," she said wistfully.

"They don't," I agreed. "But who said anything about jail?"

"You are going to arrest me, aren't you?" Grace Highsmith asked pointedly.

"No," I said. "I don't think so."

She looked clearly offended. "Why not?"

"Miss Highsmith, when it comes to murder investigations," I explained, "the process of making arrests is far more complicated than most people think."

"What about the gun?" she asked.

"What about it?"

"Was I or was I not carrying the murder weapon?" she demanded.

"That remains to be seen," I told her.

Her face fell for a moment, then brightened once more. "But I was carrying a concealed weapon."

"Carrying is a misdemeanor," I said. "For simple carrying we usually confiscate the weapon and issue a citation, unless the person is actually brandishing and placing people's lives in danger, which you weren't. Furthermore, since we're outside Seattle city limits, I couldn't arrest you anyway. Bellevue isn't part of my jurisdiction."

For the first time since I met her, Grace Highsmith appeared to be gravely disappointed. "Shoot," she said. "I suppose I should have thought of that. We could just as well have gone there for lunch."

Moments later, the waiter dropped off the check. Grace may have been upset, but she deftly slipped the bill off the tray before I ever had a chance to touch it. As the waiter went away to take care of the credit-card transaction, Shelley stopped by the table one last time.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Perfect," Grace answered "For what I thought was my last meal, it was absolutely wonderful."

Shelley frowned. "What do you mean, last meal, Grace? Are you going away?"

"I thought so. I was under the impression Detective Beaumont would be arresting me and I'd be spending the rest of my life in jail. Now it turns out I'm not going to jail after all. I'm disappointed. Very disappointed!"

It turned out that in a lunchtime of bizarre conversational twists and turns, Grace Highsmith had finally managed to say something that momentarily rocked Shelley Kuni's virtually unshakable composure. For a second, the restaurant owner paled, glancing back and forth from Grace to me. Finally, Shelley leaned down and gave the older woman a hug.

"I'm sure everything will work out just fine," she said. "If you do end up in jail and the cooks don't serve caramel apple cake, maybe I could send some in for you special."

"Oh, Shelley," Grace said, her eyes misting once more. "You're one of the most thoughtful people I know."

Being a gentleman, I walked Grace back to her store on Main Street. There was no further conversation. She was obviously quite put out that I had failed to perform as expected. When we arrived at Dorene's, the door was open, but the middle-aged woman I glimpsed through the window couldn't possibly have been Latty Gibson.

"I'm still going to need to talk to Latty in person," I said, pausing outside the door. "Will you give her my number and ask her to call?"

"Oh, all right," Grace agreed.

"And I'll want to speak to Virginia Marks as well. I've already tried calling her, but I only reached her answering machine."

"She's out of town," Grace said. "She's due back sometime later this afternoon. I expect to hear from her as soon as she gets in."

It sounded to me as though Virginia Marks was still working for Grace Highsmith. "Do you know where she's been?"

"Of course. She's been down in California."

"Doing what?"

"Tracking Don Wolf."

"But why? The man's dead."

"As Mark Antony said about Julius Caesar, ‘The evil that men do lives after them.' These are the nineties, Detective Beaumont. Just because the man is dead doesn't mean he can no longer hurt her."

There was a short pause before I finally tumbled to what she meant. "You mean AIDS?"

"Of course I mean AIDS. I haven't brought it up with Latty, because I don't want to alarm her unnecessarily. Nonetheless, Virginia is trying to find out if he had any other…sexual connections. Besides his wife, I mean."

It crossed my mind that for that kind of information, a trip to California wasn't the least bit necessary. In fact, all Virginia Marks would have needed to do was talk to Jack Braman of the Lake View Condos. But I didn't tell Grace Highsmith that. It wasn't my job.

"I'll need to talk to Virginia Marks as soon as possible, Miss Highsmith," I said. "And to Latty as well. Please give them my phone numbers. Here's another card in case you misplaced the first one. It would be better for all concerned if they contacted me rather than having to be tracked down."

This time Grace Highsmith slipped the card into her pocket. She seemed suddenly subdued and diminished. "You knew right away I was lying, didn't you," she said.

I nodded.

"I was a fair actress once," she said sadly. "I really thought I could pull it off. Now that it's out in public, though, my confession is probably going to cause a good deal of trouble."

"Telling me doesn't mean it's public knowledge. Don't worry about it," I added. "I certainly don't hold it against you. After all, Latty's your niece. You were only trying to protect her."

"Thank you, Detective Beaumont," she said. "You've been most kind."

I opened the door and let Grace back into her shop, then I climbed into the parked Porsche and started the engine. As I glanced in the rearview mirror, I noticed that a van with a television station's logo emblazoned on the front was waiting to pull into my parking place.

At the time, I didn't think a thing about it, although, if I'd been smart, I would have.