This was a somewhat different marital report card than the one we’d gotten from Pete Kelsey himself.
“So you knew about their so-called open marriage?”
Max looked startled. “Pete called it that?”
I nodded and Max drew a long breath. “I knew about it, as much as an outsider ever knows about those kinds of things, but like I said, those occasional dalliances didn’t mean that much to either one of them. They both cared about staying together, not only for each other but for Erin as well.”
“What if one of them did?” I suggested, letting a hint of Paul Kramer’s pet theory loose in the room for the first time. “What if one of those dalliances turned serious? Would Pete Kelsey have become violent about it?”
“You’re implying…No. No way. Not on your life.”
I heard what Max said, but declarations of that sort from good friends are to be taken with a grain of salt.
“Did you and Marcia stay close through the years?”
“Not so much lately,” Max admitted ruefully. “Pete and I have become good friends over the years, and we keep in touch. I try to go down to the Trolleyman every once in a while when I know he’s there. I tip back a pint of bitters, and Pete and I have a chance to shoot the breeze.”
“How long has he worked for the Trolleyman?”
“Off and on for as long as they’ve been open. He likes it, he’s good with the customers, and he’s dependable. They flex with him when he has a remodeling job.”
“What’s his background, do you know?”
“Not really. He came from Ottawa originally, I believe. When he did that work for my mother, he was just starting out and struggling. All he had then was his green card and a whole lot of talent. After he and Marcia married, of course, he became a naturalized citizen.”
“Where’d he go to school?”
“To college, you mean?”
I nodded and Max shook his head. “I know he went somewhere, but I’m not sure where. Started out as a history major and decided he didn’t like it. I don’t think he ever graduated. And for the kind of thing he does, he certainly doesn’t need a degree. His work speaks for itself. Believe me, he makes a very good living doing remodels when he feels like it. He can pick and choose his jobs, too. He’s a craftsman, you see, someone who understands wood. That’s rare these days.”
“What about Erin?”
Max’s face clouded over. “Erin’s one sweet kid, and she couldn’t have loved Marcia more if she’d been her real mother.”
“You’d say Marcia was a good mother then?”
“The best. Not according to her mother, maybe. Not in the old-fashioned motherhood-and-apple-pie sense. LaDonna Riggs still believes a woman’s place is in the home. I don’t think she ever approved of the fact that Pete did most of the cooking and cleaning. Marcia may have been sloppy as hell, but she was an interested mother, a concerned mother, and a smart one.
“She exposed Erin to the arts, to the kinds of plays and books and performances that most kids never have a chance of seeing. Marcia recognized Erin’s intelligence early on and encouraged her every step of the way. Erin finished up her undergraduate degree at the U-Dub here in Seattle in three years flat, and now she’s down in Eugene working on her masters in English lit.”
Max paused. “She’s my godchild, you know. Did anyone tell you that? She was almost two when I first met her, but Pete said she didn’t have a godfather because he’d never thought of it. I was deeply honored. It’s probably the closet thing I’ll ever get to being a parent, I suppose,” he added somewhat wistfully.
“Are you in touch with Erin?” I asked.
He nodded. “She writes to me at least once or twice a month. In fact, Pete asked me if I could go down and pick her up from the airport this morning and I hated to turn him down, but with this cold, I told him I’d better not. I wouldn’t want her to catch it.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Andrea Stovall?”
Max frowned. “Andrea Stovall,” he repeated. “It sounds familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place it.”
“The Seattle Federated Teachers’ Association,” I said. “Now does it ring a bell?”
He nodded. “That’s right. She’s the president, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Did Marcia ever say anything to you about her?”
Max paused to consider. “Wait a minute. Now that you mention it, I think I may have met her once at a Christmas party at Pete and Marcia’s. As I recall, I didn’t like her much. Dykish females tend to rub me the wrong way.”
“Dykish? She didn’t strike me that way, and I thought she was married.”
“Divorced,” Max answered. “A lot of times they get married, but it’s just for show and it doesn’t last. Don’t look so surprised, J. P. It’s not like they have to go around wearing a sign or something.”
An errant thought crossed my mind. “What about Marcia Kelsey?” I asked.
Now it was Max’s turn to be surprised. “Marcia? A les? No way. She was a fun-loving girl, all right, but strictly heterosexual. If that’s what you’re thinking, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
This time it was my pager that went off and interrupted the process. Max directed me to the kitchen phone, which was far enough away to be out of earshot when I called in, I was given Ron Peters’ number.
“There you are,” he said when he heard my voice. “Amy gave me strict orders to get in touch with you early today, but I’ve been stuck in a meeting all morning long. We just got out.”
“What do you need?”
“We wanted you to come to dinner tonight. Amy’s doing a pot roast. It should be good.”
A pot roast? Real home cooking? It was too good to resist. “What time?” I asked.
“What time can you make it?”
My after-work AA meeting would last from five-thirty to six-thirty in the basement of a downtown church across from Denny Park.
“Is seven too late?”
“No. That’ll be fine. See you then.”
Ron started to hang up, but I stopped him. “Wait a minute, Ron. There’s something I need some help with.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you remember hearing anything about a series of bomb threats at the school district office last fall?”
“Bomb threats? I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Me either,” I told him, “but they happened, and they didn’t get reported. What I want to know is who buried those reports and how they did it.”
“Sounds like something that’s right up my alley,” Ron said. I could hear a smile lighting up his face, an echo of the old enthusiasm leaking into his voice.
“That’s what I thought. By the way, don’t try checking directly with the Firearms and Explosives guys,” I warned. “We don’t want to get Sparky’s tail caught in a wringer on this one.”
“Don’t worry,” Ron Peters responded with a laugh. “I have my own sources, and I’ll be the soul of discretion. See you at seven.”
I left the phone and went back into Maxwell Cole’s living room. He was leaning back with his eyes closed. For a moment I thought he had fallen asleep, but he sat up as soon as he heard me pause in the doorway.
“Did Pete tell you about the harassing phone calls?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“And he told you that Erin had been getting them too?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible the phone calls and the murders are related?”
As a loyal friend of Pete Kelsey’s, Max was gently trying to lead me away from pointing an accusing finger in Pete’s direction. Under the circumstances, I probably would have done the same thing. He was also fishing for information.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I replied evenly, trying not to let any information slip into my words or intonation. “It’s much too early to speculate.”
“Well, I think they are,” Max declared forcefully, maybe trying to convince himself as much as he wanted to convince me. “When you find the person making those phone calls, you’ll find the killer. You mark my words.”
It always sounds so easy when somebody else says it. So easy and so simple. Saying it and doing it, however, are two entirely different things.