As I left Renton and headed home, it was after four-thirty, and I was in the throes of Friday-afternoon rush-hour traffic. After half an hour of stop-and-go driving just to make it from the Renton entrance onto I-5 up to Boeing Field, I finally bailed and resorted to using side streets. By then they weren’t much better, but at least they gave me the illusion of movement. I had visions of getting home late and finding Mel dressed and ready to go to the shindig. I shouldn’t have worried.
On the way I called Detective Jackson to let him know I had connected with Elaine Manning. He was not a happy camper. “You mean, after I went chasing that woman all over God’s creation you ended up tracking her down after I left the funeral?”
“What can I say? I just lucked out.”
“What’s the deal?” he said, grumbling. So I told him what Elaine had told me, ending by letting him know that I had cleared the way for him and Ramsdahl to stop by and see her the next day. That made him a little less grumpy.
“All right, then,” he said. “You think she’s credible?”
“I think she definitely believes Pastor Mark Granger had something to do with LaShawn Tompkins’s death.”
“We’ll take a closer look at his alibi, then,” Jackson said. “And we’ll also start looking around at some of his associates.”
“Did he talk to you?”
“Are you kidding? His attorney wouldn’t let him say a word. But thanks for the help, Beau. I appreciate it.”
“Any luck tracking that nun that was seen in the neighborhood the night LaShawn was shot?” I put the question out there just to let him know that I knew and to see what he’d do about it.
“Not much,” he said. “We’ve been looking into it, but nothing so far.”
“You let me know if you do,” I said, “and I’ll do the same.”
When I finally walked in the door at a quarter to six I was astonished to find Mel dressed in the clothing she had worn to work much earlier that morning. She glanced up at me from the kitchen counter, where she and Todd were still hard at work.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Slow,” I said, kissing her hello. “Very slow. What about you?”
“Pretty much the same,” she said. “There’s a lot of material here.”
Todd roused himself from his computer and sent an unabashedly admiring look in Mel’s direction. “If you want me to hang around and work on this over the weekend…” he began.
But Mel jumped in to send him packing. “No,” she said. “You go right ahead with your plans. We have more than enough here to keep us busy all weekend. Besides,” she added, pointedly glancing at her watch, “we have an engagement this evening. If we don’t head out soon, we’ll be late.”
Todd Hatcher took the hint. “All right, then,” he said, closing his computer and starting to stuff it into his backpack. “I’ll go. Should I take the abstracts or leave them?”
I shrugged. Mel said, “Leave them. We may have time to work on them over the weekend.”
“All right,” Todd agreed. “But if you need anything, call me. And here’s a fax number. If you have more notes for me to add to the spreadsheet, you can fax them down to me.”
Mel ushered him to the door.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to…” he began.
“No,” Mel said firmly. “Take the weekend off, Todd. You work too hard.” Once he was outside the apartment she looked at her watch. “Better hurry,” she told me.
We went into our separate bathrooms to shower and dress. I hadn’t tried on the tux after it had been altered—not with Lars Jenssen waiting out in the car—but the changes had been done expertly enough that the tux fit perfectly, sleeve length, shoulders, and all. At twenty after six Mel appeared in my bedroom door looking gorgeous in a long black beaded dress with a slit that showed a length of exquisitely formed leg. She held up a single-strand pearl necklace.
“Can you fasten this?” she asked.
Complying, I brushed her perfumed shoulder with my lips as I did so. “You’re beautiful,” I told her. “Poor Todd. The guy was practically salivating every time he looked at you.”
“I noticed,” Mel said.
“Did he tell you about his parents?” I asked.
“What about them?”
We were in the elevator and on our way to the car and I was starting to tell her the story when we were interrupted by a phone call from Jeremy letting me know they were safely back in Ashland.
“Good,” I said. “Glad to hear it.”
I thought that would be the end of the conversation, but it wasn’t.
“She’s upstairs right now,” he added. “Putting the kids to bed, but I don’t know what to do with her, Beau. She cried all the way home.”
“Kayla?” I asked, remembering that traveling with cranky preschoolers can seem like a long-term jail sentence at times.