J. Jance: Trial By Fury

"And this is your first child?"

She swallowed. "We tried, for a long time. The doctors said we’d never have children."

"How long did your husband teach at Mercer Island?"

She took a deep breath. "Twelve years. He taught social studies at Franklin before that. He was assistant basketball coach at Mercer Island for eight years, head coach for the last two."

"Didn’t they win state last year?" Peters asked. "Seems like I remember reading that."

Peters’ memory never fails to impress me. He impressed Joanna Ridley, too.

She gave him a bittersweet smile. "That’s true, but people said it was only a holdover from the previous year, the previous coach. Darwin wanted to do it again this year so he could prove…" She stopped abruptly, unable to continue.

"I know this is painful for you," Peters sympathized. "But it’s important that we put all the pieces together. You told Detective Beaumont here that you last saw your husband Friday morning at breakfast?"

She nodded. "That’s right."

"You didn’t go to the game?"

"I don’t like basketball."

"You didn’t attend his games?"

"Our work lives were separate. I stayed away from his career, and he stayed away from mine."

"What do you do?"

"I’m a flight attendant for United. On maternity leave."

"Joanna," I cut in, "something you said last night has been bothering me, something about crossing a line. What did you mean?"

Joanna Ridley was not a practiced liar. She hesitated for only the briefest moment, but caution and wariness were evident in her answer. "Blacks go only so far before they hit the wall. It was okay to come from Rainier Valley and go to Mercer Island as assistant coach, but not head coach."

"There were problems, racial problems?"

"Some."

"And you think your husband’s death may be racially motivated."

"Don’t you?" she asked in return.

I could tell she was concealing something, hiding what she really meant behind her curt answers, her troubled gaze. Finally, biting her lip, she dropped her eyes and sat looking down at the bulge of baby in her lap.

At last she looked back up at us. "Is that all?" she asked. "My guests are waiting."

It wasn’t all. It was a hell of a long way from being all, but we had reached an impasse, a place beyond which progress was impossible until Peters and I had more to go on.

"For the time being," I said, rising. Peters followed. I handed her my card. "Here’s my name and numbers. Call if you remember something else you think we need to know."

She took it from my hand and dropped it onto the desk without looking at it. Her expression said that I shouldn’t hold my breath.

When she made no offer to get up, I said, "We can find our way out."

She nodded, and we left.

"We said something that pissed her off," Peters mused as we climbed into the car. "I don’t know exactly what it was."

"She lied," I told him.

"I know, but why?"

"There must have been phone calls, or at least, one call. And then later, when I asked her about what she said last night. That was all a smoke screen."

Peters nodded. "I thought as much."

There was a brief silence in the car. In my mind’s eye I played back the entire conversation, trying to recall each nuance, every inflection. Peters was doing the same thing.

"Something else bothered me," Peters said.

"What’s that?"

"The part about her not going to the games, not liking basketball."

"Karen wasn’t wild about homicide," I said. "Wives aren’t required to adore whatever it is their husbands do."

"Point taken. So what now? Run a routine check on her?"

"Sounds reasonable."

"By the way," Peters added, "how come you didn’t mention she was pregnant last night?"

"Didn’t I?"

"No."

"I must be getting old. The mind’s going."

Peters chuckled, and there was another short silence. "I hope she’s not the one," he said at last. "She seems like such a nice lady."

"Appearances can be deceiving," I said.

I felt Peters’ sharp, appraising look. "Ain’t that the truth!" he said.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Anne Corley had taught me that much.

In spades.

We took the signed search form back to the Public Safety Building and hand-carried it through the process. Once it had crossed all required desks and swum upstream through all necessary channels, we followed the State Patrol’s criminalists into the processing room.

Over the years, you get used to the unexpected. When you’re dealing with homicide, there’s no telling what’ll turn up in the victim’s vehicle-the murder weapon, incriminating evidence, perhaps even another victim. That’s happened to me more than once.

Peters and I had already seen what was in the car itself, but we were most curious about what might be hidden out of sight in the trunk. We were prepared for anything, except for what we found-a trunkful of Girl Scout cookies. Fifteen boxes in all.

We weren’t the only ones who were surprised. It set the guy from the crime lab on his ass as well. "I’ll be damned!" he said.

He conducted a quick inventory: Five Mints, three Carmel Delights, three Peanut Butter Patties, two Lemon Creams, and two Short Bread. The entire selection. If there was a hidden message concealed in the variety of cookies, the pattern eluded us.

On the other hand, the contents of the athletic bag turned out to be quite revealing-sweats, a clean shirt, a change of underwear and socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of Chaps. Darwin Ridley had intended to smell good, if not during the game, then certainly after it. And it appeared that he had planned to spend the night away from home regardless of whether or not the Islanders won.

We left the lab tech to his detail work. Peters and I drove across the floating bridge to Mercer Island. During the early years of Seattle, there was a group of visionaries who had wanted to turn Mercer Island into a vast park to benefit the whole city. That idea was squelched on the premise that no one in his right mind would travel that far for a picnic. Now, depending on rush hour traffic, Mercer Island is one of Seattle ’s closest suburbs. It’s also one of the poshest.

Mercer Island High School is tucked back into the island’s interior. On that particular day, it was a hotbed of activity. A whole contingent of reporters had beaten us to the punch. They hovered in eddying groups, hoping to capture a newsworthy comment from a grief-stricken team member or student. News vehicles occupied every visitor parking place as well as a good portion of the fire lane.

Peters and I parked a block or so away on the street and walked. We located the principal’s office from the crowd milling around the door, both inside and out. A harried clerk stood behind a counter, attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Peters and I shoved our way through the mob, many of whom we recognized from the early morning press conference.

"We need to see the principal," Peters said brusquely to the clerk when we finally reached the counter.

"You and everybody else," she replied sarcastically.

He handed her the leather wallet containing his ID. She took off her glasses to examine it and then gave it back. She replaced her glasses, settling them firmly on her face. "All right. Let me check with Mr. Browning."

She disappeared into an inner office and returned moments later. "He’ll see you now," she announced.

The only thing big about Ned Browning was his voice, which rumbled from an incongruously diminutive chest. His elfin features smacked of Santa Claus. His handshake, however, was that of a born wrestler.

"You’re here about Mr. Ridley’s death?" We nodded. Obviously, Ned Browning wasn’t one to beat around the bush. "I’m sure you understand what an effect this terrible loss has had on our student body today." He spoke with the measured cadence of an old-time educator, one used to having his listeners’ undivided attention. Or else.