“I’m investigating a double homicide,” he said. “Carol and Jack Lawrence were found shot to death in the yard outside their home early this morning. A kid delivering their Sunday paper found the bodies.”
When husbands and wives perish together, it’s usually pretty easy to fill in the blanks, and the outcome is one that would come as no surprise to “those women” gathered in their evening finery at the Sheraton. A husband or ex-husband or boyfriend or ex-boyfriend murders the woman who was once the love of his life and then turns the weapon on himself.
“Murder/suicide?” I croaked.
“No,” Lander answered. “That’s not how it looks so far, since no weapon was found at the scene. Would it be possible to meet with you this morning? I’d like to discuss the purpose of your meeting with them yesterday. I’d also like to know what the outcome was.”
Lander had made his approach in an offhand way, but I knew there was nothing casual about his invitation. Both the Lawrences were dead. Now it seemed likely I was one of the last people to see Carol Lawrence alive. In the eyes of homicide investigators, that automatically made me a person of interest, if not an outright suspect. It also meant that Detective Lander wanted to talk to me, and he wanted to talk to me now. No doubt DeAnn had mentioned that I was with the attorney general’s office. That explained why Lander’s request for an interview was couched in a way that made allowances for professional courtesy. It was incumbent on me to respond in kind.
“I didn’t meet with both of them,” I corrected. “Jack Lawrence wasn’t home at the time. I only spoke to Mrs. Lawrence, but of course I’ll be glad to meet with you. Just tell me where and when. I’m in Seattle right now. Where are you?”
“Redmond,” Lander answered. “Talking with DeAnn Cosgrove and her husband at their house.”
“I could meet you at the Special Homicide offices in Eastgate, if you like.”
“Where’s that?” Lander asked. “And how soon can you be there?”
I glanced at my watch. “Depending on traffic, half an hour to forty-five,” I said. Then I gave him Special Homicide’s street address as well as driving directions. When I returned to the restaurant, Iris Rassmussen was still holding forth. The only other person paying any attention to my phone call was Mel, who was giving me what I’ve sometimes heard my son-in-law refer to as “the stink eye.”
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Work,” I said, flagging down our harried waitress. “I’m going to have to go into the office.”
“Good,” she returned. “I’m coming along.”
I had been hoping to have a chance to confer with Ralph Ames in relative privacy, but telling Mel she wasn’t welcome to ride along would have caused an immediate uproar, especially since we had arrived at the restaurant in the same vehicle. We made our way out to the parking lot and said our good-byes to Iris and Lars and to Scott and Cherisse as well.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asked as soon as the Mercedes’s doors shut behind us.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
She rolled her eyes. “Something’s bothering you,” she said. “And don’t try blaming it on whoever called you just now. You were wound tight long before the call came in.”
That’s one of the most disconcerting things about Mel. I sometimes think she understands me better than I understand myself. Or that she can read my mind. But she was absolutely right—I had been wound very tight. I screwed my courage to the sticking place and tackled the issue head-on. Well, more or less head-on.
“Where did you go when you went to Mexico last fall?” I asked.
“Cancún,” she said, sounding surprised.
Cancún. Bad answer. There it was—out in the open. My heart did a flip-flop at the very sound.
“Why do you want to know about that?”
I ignored her question. “When were you there?” I asked.
“The end of October through the first week in November,” she said. “But I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”
The dates she mentioned hit me like a second blow to the gut. The end of October coincided exactly with the time when Richard Matthews had reportedly disappeared from his early-morning beachside walk. In Cancún. Having launched this disturbing conversation without waiting for any kind of confirmation from Ralph Ames, I realized there was no turning back.
“Remember your dead friend’s father?” I asked. “The one you told me about yesterday?”
“Richard Matthews, Sarah’s father?” Mel asked. “Of course I remember him. Why?”
“He disappeared in Cancún on the first of November.”
“Disappeared?” she asked.
“His body was found later. He died from a single gunshot wound.”
She chewed on that one for a while. “And you think I had something to do with what happened to him?”
“Did you?” I asked.
We were on Mercer by then, headed for I-5. “Why don’t you stop the car and let me out,” she said. “I’ll walk back to the house.”