Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [23]
Chapter 6
Sunday morning dawned clear and cold. I woke up, still sitting in my chair, nursing a terrific hangover.
Friday and Saturday’s storm had blown itself out. The cloud cover that usually keeps Seattle temperatures moderate was missing. The sun had barely come up when banks of fog rolled in. Once the fog burned off, the sun’s rays offered no warmth.
Hindsight is so simple. I should have had some premonition my life would change that day. If I had called old Dave, Karen’s new husband, and asked him to spare me a few chicken entrails, maybe I could have gotten a seer to give me some advance warning. I wouldn’t have been caught quite so off guard. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—Dave and I don’t have that kind of relationship. As it was, the morning appeared routine, ordinary, once I’d swallowed enough aspirin to quiet the pounding in my head.
I made breakfast, hoping that food would help. I have mastered the art of microwave bacon and soft-boiled eggs. Then I ran my weekly load of dishes and washed my weekly load of clothes. Anything that has to be ironed goes across the street to the cleaners and laundry. By then I was feeling half human.
After I finished my chores, the week’s collection of crossword puzzles was waiting in the hall outside my door. Ida, my next-door neighbor, knows I hate newspapers and love crossword puzzles. She saves them for me all week. On Sunday morning she leaves a little stack outside my door after she finishes with her own paper. I’ve come to regard the weekly stack of puzzles as a variation on the Easter Bunny theme. It’s almost as magical.
Peters has season tickets to the Mariners’ games. That particular Sunday, the Yankees were in town. We had decided the day before that I would pull the funeral duty. It’s a part of the job that I don’t relish, but season tickets are season tickets.
I suppose I should explain why cops go to murder victims’ funerals. They go to see who shows up and who doesn’t. Statistically most people are murdered by someone they know. Oftentimes a murderer will attend the funeral for fear his not being there will throw suspicion in his direction. Sometimes it works the other way too. The killer is a complete stranger who goes to the funeral because it gives him a feeling of power to be there without anyone knowing who he is, so homicide detectives go to funerals. It comes with the territory.
Brodie had told me that Angela’s Thanksgiving Service would be held at Mount Pleasant Cemetery on top of Queen Anne Hill. It struck me as being a little odd. I would have expected them to have a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon in Faith Tabernacle itself. It seemed self-effacing, as though they didn’t want to draw attention to the church itself.
I decided to walk to the cemetery. I suppose I could have gone down to the department and checked out a car, but I didn’t feel like going anywhere near the department, not even as close as the motor pool.
I got over being a suburban type all at once. I sold my car when I moved to the city. I got my apartment cheap because it didn’t come with a parking place. Later I found out why it was cheap. Parking in downtown Seattle costs a fortune. I did the only sensible thing—I learned to love the bus.
Gone were the days of the fifty-five-minute commute. All commuting ever got me was an ulcer, hemorrhoids, and a divorce. Walking isn’t all that bad except that having dates without a car has proved to be something of a challenge. The upshot is that I’ve virtually given up dating except for those rare cliff-dwelling creatures like myself who aren’t insulted by an offer of dinner or a movie contingent upon walking to and from. There aren’t too many women like that, so my sex life has dwindled. I chum around with some of the lavender-haired ladies from the Royal Crest who are glad to have my friendship but don’t make demands on my body or my schedule. Like me, they mostly don’t have cars. It’s a lifestyle that