Dance of the Bones

I knew that, too. The building probably wasn’t more than ten blocks away from Belltown Terrace. Getting there on foot would have been easy because the going part was all downhill. Coming back up one of those glacial ridges to return to the Denny Regrade would have been hell, though. Since Mel wasn’t there to insist I do otherwise, I drove.

When you live in downtown Seattle, you tend to keep an eye on nearby real estate, if for no other reason than worrying about some building sprouting up and wrecking your view. Mel and I had watched the transformation of a former lowbrow manufacturing plant into an upscale residential property called the Lofts. Thanks to a long succession of bumbling developers, the building had gone through some tough times. Still, buildings in downtown Seattle that come with any kind of parking, and most especially guest parking, don’t come cheap. As I parked in the Lofts underground garage and walked toward the security phone by the elevator lobby, I couldn’t help but think that Calliope Horn had come a long way from living in a makeshift tarp--covered homeless camp decades earlier.

When I called, a male voice answered and directed me to come to apartment number 502. A glance at the elevator control panel told me that floor number five was the top floor, which meant their unit was also a penthouse. Yes, Calliope Horn had indeed come a very long way.

When I rang the bell, the door was opened by a man in a wheelchair. That shouldn’t have surprised me, since the door came equipped with two peepholes—-one at the regular height and one a -couple of feet lower. One half of the man’s face drooped, but he gave me a welcoming smile with the side that still worked, and the grip of his handshake was warm and welcoming.

“Mr. Beaumont?”

I nodded. Having someone call me “mister” still gives me pause. For the greater part of my life, the word “Detective” was an integral part of my name. I still miss it, although I expect I’ll get over it one of these days.

“I’m Dale Grover,” the man said, “Callie’s husband. Come on in.” Using a joystick on the arm of his chair, he backed effortlessly out of the way and led me into what turned out to be an impeccably decorated room. There were no rugs on the polished hardwood floor, probably to accommodate the wheelchair. The furnishings were clean--lined and sleek, but comfortable. The place was modern without being either ostentatious or obnoxious. Dale parked his chair next to the far end of a black leather sofa and motioned for me to sit down.

“I’m afraid Callie’s just been called to the phone in the office next door. She’ll join us in a -couple of minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m fine.”

“She mentioned that you were coming,” Dale continued. “I believe this has something to do with an old beau of hers, Kenneth.”

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“Nope,” Dale answered. “Kenny was long before my time. Callie and I met in seminary. We were both starting over. I’d had a stroke in the course of routine surgery—-an appendectomy, for Pete’s sake. It was supposed to be in and out. Didn’t work out that way and I ended up having a stroke. When my wife at the time learned that I’d be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, she declined to hang around. She told me she wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of her life looking after a cripple.

“Before the stroke, I had been a high school football coach. I’d always prided myself on being physically fit and setting a good example for my players. You know what they say, ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ Once I was stuck in this, I just couldn’t see myself coaching from the sidelines.”

“Had to be tough,” I offered.