J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“To talk about Madeline Marchbank,” I said.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he muttered. “My father’s partner’s sister. Died young. Murdered. Tragic loss-tragic.” He took another drink. He tapped his foot. “Never solved, either,” he added.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It was never solved.”

“So why’re you talking to me about it?”

“I believe the murder took place on your wedding day-the day you married your first wife.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I guess it did.”

“Two people involved in that case, Albert and Elvira Marchbank, were dropped from the list of suspects because detectives were told they had been in Canada attending your wedding.”

Tom Landreth frowned in wary concentration, the way drunks do when they know the conversation has gone too far but they’re too smashed to do anything but answer. “Right,” he said at last. “They were there all right, Albert and Elvira.”

“Who else was there?”

He stared at me dumbly.

“At the wedding,” I prodded. “Who else attended?”

“Well, Faye, of course,” he said. “And her parents.”

The bride and her parents. I gave the man credit for going for the obvious. “What about your grandparents?” I asked. “The Crosbys. Were they there?”

“My mother’s parents?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, for chrissakes. More than fifty years.”

“You can’t remember if your grandparents were there, but you’re sure Albert and Elvira Marchbank were?”

Landreth stood up, swayed slightly, got his bearings, then lurched across the room. On the far side of the living room was a wet bar, the granite countertop littered with countless dead-soldier Dewar’s bottles standing at attention. He refilled his glass, took a drink, and then stared at me belligerently.

“They were there,” he declared. “That I do remember!”

“Good,” I said reassuringly. “Fine. I’m glad to hear it. Now, about Wednesday.”

“What about Wednesday?”

“Did you hear from Elvira that day?”

He blinked once before he answered as if sensing a trap. “No,” he said then. “Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’?” I asked. “You and Elvira were close, weren’t you? You’re sure she didn’t call you on Wednesday afternoon to tell you about her unexpected visitor?”

“No,” he repeated. “I don’t know anything about a visitor. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Had it been up to me, I probably would have left right then, but that was when Mel turned on the charm and went into action.

“Come on, Mr. Landreth,” she said. “You see, we already know about the phone call. We know that an eyewitness from that old case came to visit Elvira. I’m guessing she called to tell you-to warn you-that she had decided to do the right thing and turn herself in.”

Landreth stared at Mel. His mouth dropped open. “You’ve got no right to tap my phone. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

In his effort to be cagey, Landreth had tripped himself up. We had the phone records, but he had made the assumption that we had somehow heard what Elvira had said to him.

“So that is what she said?” Mel probed.

“I couldn’t believe she’d do such a thing,” Tom declared. “I asked her that-why after all these years? And do you know what she said? That she was going to dissolve the Marchbank Foundation and sell off all the assets-just like that. After all the work Raelene and I have done. Elvira said there was no point. That once people heard about what happened to Madeline, it would all be over anyway. We wouldn’t be able to raise another dime.”

“How would she go about doing that?” Mel asked. “Dissolving the foundation, I mean.”

“The board of directors would have to agree.”

“And they are?”

“Elvira, of course, myself, and a longtime friend of the family.”

“This longtime friend wouldn’t happen to be named William Winkler, would he?” I asked.

Tom looked at me balefully. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “But no one calls him William. Dad always called him Wink. My father didn’t mind when the Marchbank name was the one that went on the foundation. Even though he and Albert were partners, that was the name of the company as well-Marchbank Broadcasting. But Dad was the one who insisted that Wink be on the board of directors. He said it was important to have someone impartial on it, someone who wasn’t directly involved.”

There was a television set in the room, but it wasn’t on, and the screen was half obscured by the junk piled high on a chair in front of it. And some of the newspapers scattered about were old enough to be turning yellow. I realized suddenly that Tom Landreth probably had no inkling that Wink Winkler was dead. It was possible he didn’t even know about Elvira.

“You know they’re dead, then, don’t you?” I asked.

“Who’s dead?” he asked. “I thought we were talking about Madeline. Of course I know she’s dead.”

“What about Elvira?”

“Elvira’s fine.”

“And Wink?”

“He’s fine, too.” Tom paused and frowned at me. “As far as I know. He is fine, isn’t he?”

“Mr. Landreth,” Mel said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Elvira Marchbank died in her home a short time after speaking to you on the phone on Wednesday. Not long after that, Mr. Winkler committed suicide.”

“No!” Tom exclaimed. “That can’t be right. Raelene would have said something. She would have told me.”

“What time does your wife come home?” Mel asked.

Tom looked at his watch and then shrugged. “Late,” he said.

“But you don’t know what time?”

“It depends.” He was wavering now-covering. Given the state of her home and husband, it seemed likely Raelene Landreth didn’t come home anymore at all.

“We’d like to speak to her again,” Mel said kindly. “It would help to clear up a few things. If you think she’ll be here soon, we could just wait until she arrives.”

“No,” Tom said. “That’s not a good idea. Wait a minute. What day is it?”

“Day?” Mel asked.

“What day of the week?”

“Friday,” Mel replied. “Why?”

“Friday is when she has her hair and nails done,” Tom declared, as if proud to be able to dredge up this little item of domestic trivia. “Three o’clock,” he added.“Gene Juarez, downtown.” He squinted at his watch-a Rolex. “If you hurry,” he said, “you might be able to catch her there.”

I stood up. “We’ll be going then, Mr. Landreth.” He started to lurch to his feet. “Don’t bother,” I told him. “We can find our way out.”

As we walked back to the car, something nagged at me, something Raelene had said. Back in the Taurus, I opened my notebook and scanned through it. And there it was. Raelene had told me about going for her “regular mani-pedi” after work. I glanced over at Mel, noticing for the first time that her nails gleamed with scarlet polish.

“What?” she asked when she caught me staring at her.

“If someone had a manicure and pedicure on Wednesday, would they need another one on Friday?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t,” Mel responded.

“Raelene Landreth told me she left work on Wednesday, the day Elvira died, and went to have her regular mani-pedi, as she put it. So either poor old Tom is out of the loop when it comes to Raelene’s schedule or she was lying through her teeth about what she did that day.”

Raelene pulled out her phone. “I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t I call down to Gene Juarez and ask them?”

“Good idea.”

Mel was smooth as glass. Claiming to be an old chum, Mel confirmed that Raelene was finished with her pedicure and was having her manicure. “No,” Mel said, “don’t bother giving her a message. I want this to be a surprise.” Turning off her phone, Mel looked at me. “So chances are she did lie about Wednesday. Are we going to go talk to her or not?”