J. Jance - A more perfect union

"No, she says Linda always pulls stunts like this, like taking off without telling anyone where she's going."

"So what's the point? The mother's not worried, but you are?"

"That's right."

"How come, Peters? What's eating you?"

"Think about it for a minute, Beau. Didn't you tell me that Corbett guy said Tyree had a jealous wife?"

"That's what he said."

"And that the girlfriend, Linda Decker, met him while she was attending an ironworking apprenticeship class?"

"That's right, too."

"And now this Angie Dixon. She's an apprentice, too. Maybe Logan Tyree made friends with more than one of his students."

It began to come together. I could see the pattern building in Peters' brain. It didn't take an overly active imagination. "You think maybe Linda Decker's scared that she's next? You think she's hiding out?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

"In that case, maybe somebody should check out Katherine Tyree."

Peters breathed a sigh of relief. "Bingo," he said. "You're not a fast study, Beau. I thought you'd never pick up on it."

"Is this a subtle hint?" I asked. "And is the somebody doing the checking going to be me?"

"It sure as hell can't be me," Peters responded bleakly. "In the meantime, those other assholes are absolutely determined that the incidents aren't related in any way."

"Did you mention your suspicions to Manny?"

There was a slight pause before Peters answered. "No," he said reluctantly. "Not exactly."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "All right, all right. I'll do it. I can't today because in a few minutes I have to be down at the Sheraton, but I told Watty I'd be taking a few days off once we finished up on the movie. I'll have some time to check into it and no one will be the wiser. You're still gunning for Kramer, aren't you."

When he answered, Peters' voice was hushed. "You'd better believe it," he breathed. "You'd by God better believe it."

Just when I figure I can count on Peters to wake me up, he lets me down. The next morning he didn't call, and I slept until after nine. Fortunately, I didn't have to be at work early that day. In fact, I didn't have to go to work at all.

My head was pounding. I lay there in bed trying not to move for fear I would shatter into a thousand pieces. Try as I might to remember, the end of the evening was a total blank.

From seven o'clock on, it had been one long wild party all over the Sheraton. Booze flowed like water. Vaguely I could recall closing down Gooey's in the wee small hours. There's an old country-western song that talks about how even ugly girls look good at closing time. I must have been thoroughly smashed. My last coherent thought was that maybe Cassie Young wasn't that bad-looking after all.

I finally dared open one eye. Glaring sunlight exploded in my head. Then, cautiously, I peered over at the other side of the bed. Thankfully, it was empty. I was all right so far. Hung over as hell, but otherwise all right.

Dragging my protesting body into the bathroom, I stood for a good twenty minutes under a steaming torrent of water. I should have felt guilty. Profligate even. It had been such a long, dry summer that the City of Seattle had limited yard-watering and was asking for voluntary cutbacks on indoor water usage. But I couldn't help it. It was either take the shower or stay in bed.

I ordered breakfast sent up from the deli downstairs and was beginning to feel halfway human by the time I finished my third cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin. Mornings aren't good for me even under the best of circumstances. This was not the best of circumstances.

I was glad I had called in the day before to tell Sergeant Watkins we were done filming and to let him know I was on vacation until after Labor Day. Watty had suggested I go out and have fun, but the Death in Drydock party had been almost more fun than I could stand. By the fourth cup of coffee, I was ready to admit it was just as well my good drinking buddy Derrick Parker was on his way back home to Hollywood.

As the juices gradually began to flow I turned my mind over to the assignment Peters had given me the day before. After we had finished talking, there had been very little time to think about what he had said. On reflection, I could see that there was some merit in Peters' theory. Maybe Linda Decker was scared and hiding out. Despite what Red Corbett thought, it was possible Katherine Tyree had been jealous of more than just the boat.

Carrying Peters' conjecture one step further, I remembered something else Corbett had said, something about there being plenty more fish in the sea. If Logan Tyree had been mixed up with more than one woman in the apprenticeship program, nobody, including Katherine Tyree, had ever cornered the market on jealousy.

Both lines of reasoning were worth pursuing.

I already had Linda Decker's mother's name, address, and phone number jotted in my notebook. I didn't have a clue about Katherine Tyree. I turned to the detective's greatest ally-the telephone book. Logan Tyree wasn't listed there. K. A. Tyree was. The address given was on the Maple Valley Highway in Renton. That certainly squared with what Red Corbett had told me.

As I drove toward Renton, I wasn't looking forward to meeting Katherine Tyree. I'm not predisposed to like women who, deservedly or not, toss their husbands out of the house without much more than the clothes on their backs.

The house, a small, two-story bungalow, was on a wooded lot and set some distance back from the road. There were two cars parked out front, an older pickup and a late-model Honda. The man who answered the door was still buttoning his shirt. He told me his name was Fred McKinney, but he didn't say what he was doing there. When I showed him my badge, he invited me inside.

"Kate's upstairs taking a shower," he said. "She'll be down in a few minutes. The services are this afternoon, you know. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

I followed Fred into the kitchen. He located two coffee mugs without having to look in more than one cupboard.

"Sugar? Cream?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Black."

He stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup and then offered me a place at the kitchen table. Fred, whoever he was, seemed to have an extensive working knowledge of Katherine Tyree's kitchen.

"Are you a relative?" I asked.

"Friend of the family," he said. "She's taking it pretty hard, you know," he added. "I mean the divorce wasn't final yet. It's like they weren't exactly married and they weren't exactly not. Know what I mean?"

"It's tough," I said, nodding. "It makes it difficult to know just how to act."

In another part of the house the sound of running water stopped. Katherine Tyree was evidently finished with her shower. Fred got up from the table. "I'll go tell her you're here."

I glanced around the kitchen. It was full of the kinds of decorative bric-a-brac popular with ceramic hobbyists-cutesy wall plaques complete with familiar Bible verses and age-old proverbs. To be honest, I suppose I had a preconceived notion of Katherine Tyree as some sort of femme fatale. Nothing would have been further from the truth.

The woman who followed Fred into the kitchen was a frumpy, overweight type wearing a frayed housecoat and floppy bedroom slippers. A damp bath towel was wrapped around her wet hair. She nodded silently in my direction when Fred introduced us, then went straight to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Tyree," I said. She nodded again but then she turned away from me. Looking out the window over the sink, she quickly wiped her eyes. Fred had been right when he told me she was taking it hard. She seemed genuinely grief-stricken over Logan Tyree's death. It was a full minute before she turned back around and faced me.