We should have phoned first. We got to the school about twelve-fifteen, only to discover that Candace Wynn wasn't there. Her mother was gravely ill, and Mrs. Wynn had taken the day off.
Ned Browning's clerk wasn't exactly cordial, but she was somewhat more helpful than she had been the previous day. She gave us Mrs. Wynn's telephone number in Seattle. We tried calling before we left the school, but there was no answer.
Back in the car, we started toward Seattle. Thinking the other bridge might be faster, we avoided I-90 and circled around through Bellevue. Unfortunately, a lot of other people had the same idea, including two drivers who managed to smack into one another head-on in the middle of the Evergreen Point span. It wasn't a serious accident, but it was enough to tie us up in traffic for another hour, along with several thousand other hapless souls.
It was a flawless spring day, without a cloud in the sky, with Lake Washington glassy and smooth beneath us, and with Mount Rainier a snow-covered vision to our left. Unfortunately, Peters was still ripped about Joanna Ridley, and I was pissed about the traffic, so we weren't particularly good company, and we didn't spend that hour admiring the scenery.
We finally got back to the department around two. I took Joanna's photograph and envelope down to the crime lab to see if they could lift prints or magnify the photo enough to read the print in the notice on the motel room door. Meanwhile, Peters settled down in our cubicle to try to track down Candace Wynn. By the time I got back to the fifth floor, he had reached her and made arrangements for us to meet her at a Greek restaurant in Fremont in half an hour.
Fremont is a Seattle neighborhood where aging hippies who've grown up and gone relatively straight try to sell goods and services to whatever brand of flower children is currently in vogue. Costas Opa, a Greek restaurant right across from the Fremont Bridge, is quite a bit more upscale than some of its funky neighbors. It was late afternoon by then. The place was long on tables and short on customers when we got there.
We sat at a corner window table where we could see traffic coming in all directions. Across the street, Seattle 's favorite piece of public art was still wearing the green two days after St. Patrick's day. Waiting For The Interurban is a homey piece of statuary made up of seven life-size figures, including a dog, whose face is rumored to bear a remarkable resemblance to one of the sculptor's sworn enemies. They stand under what seems to be a train station platform, waiting for an old Seattle/Tacoma commuter that has long since quit running.
Throughout the year, concerned citizens and frustrated artists make additions and corrections by adding seasonal touches to the statues' costumes. That day, they all wore emerald green full-length scarves.
I expected Candace Wynn to drive up in her red pickup. Instead, she arrived on foot, walking the wrong way up a one-way street. The Fremont Bridge, a drawbridge, was open. Candace darted through stopped vehicles to cross the street to the restaurant.
Her outfit wasn't well suited for visiting invalid relatives. She wore frayed jeans, a ragged sweatshirt, and holey tennis shoes. Sitting down, she ordered coffee.
"I'm in the process of moving," she explained, glancing down at her clothes. "The house is a mess, or I'd have invited you there."
"You live around here?" Peters asked.
She pointed north toward the Ship Canal. "Up there a few blocks, in an old watchman's quarters. View's not much, but I couldn't beat the rent. I'm moving back home, though, at the end of the month."
"Back home with your mother?"
She nodded.
"How is your mother?" I asked. "I understand she's very ill." Sometimes it surprises me when the niceties my own mother drilled into my head surface unconsciously in polite company.
Candace Wynn's freckled face grew serious. "So, so," she said. "It comes and goes. She's got cancer. She's back in the hospital right now. I'll be home to help her when she gets out. I was up with her all last night and couldn't face going to school this morning. Once I woke up, though, I decided to tackle packing. It was too nice a day to waste."
I had to agree with her there. If you've ever spent time with a cancer patient, you should know better than to squander a perfect day being miserable over little things like stalled traffic.
Somehow I had forgotten. I had spent the day blind to blossoming cherry trees and newly leafing trees. It took Andi Wynn's casual remark to bring me up short, to make me remember.
We had yet to ask her a single question, but already I was prepared to mark the interview down as an unqualified success. Whether or not she identified Mercer Island 's precociously amorous cheerleader.
CHAPTER 12
After the waiter set down her coffee, Candace Wynn took one demure sip and then looked expectantly from Peters to me and back again. "You said you needed to talk to me."
I gave Peters the old take-it-away high sign. After all, Candace Wynn knew Peters somewhat better than she knew me. Besides, Peters' earnest, engaging manner encouraged people to spill their guts. I had seen it happen.
"That's right; we do," Peters said. "How long have you been at Mercer Island?"
"Ten years."
"All that time as counselor?"
"No. I've only been in the counseling department for the last year and a half. Before that, I taught math."
"And what about the cheerleaders?"
"I've had them the whole time. I was a cheerleader at Washington State in Pullman." She stopped and gave Peters an inquiring look. "I thought this was going to be about Darwin."
"It is, really, in a roundabout way," Peters said. "You told us yesterday that you were a friend of his. How good a friend, Mrs. Wynn?"
"Andi," she reminded him. She shrugged. "Fairly good friends. When I started teaching there, a bunch of us used to play crazy eights in the teachers' lounge in the morning-Coach Altman, Darwin, and a couple of others. You get to be friends that way."
"Playing cards?"
"That's right. And in the afternoons, some of us would stop by the Roanoke and play a few games of pool."
"Including Darwin Ridley and yourself?" Peters asked.
Andi nodded. "Yes."
"Did you know anything about his personal life?" Peters continued.
"Some, but not very much."
"Have you ever met his wife, Joanna?"
"No. I never even saw her. She didn't come to school, and she never showed up at any of the faculty functions, at least not any of the ones I went to."
"And she never came to the Roanoke?"
"No."
"Did you know she's pregnant?"
Andi looked at Peters. She seemed a little surprised. "Is she? I didn't know. That's too bad," she said.
Peters nodded in agreement. "Yes, it is. Did Darwin ever indicate to you that his marriage was in trouble?"
Andi Wynn sipped her coffee and considered the question before she answered. "I remember him mentioning that they were going for marriage counseling. That was some time back. A year ago, maybe a year and a half. He never said anything more about it. Whatever the problem was, they must have straightened it out."
I was growing restless, sitting on the sidelines. "Tell us about your cheerleading squad," I said.
"The cheerleaders? What about them?"
"Give us an idea of who they are, what they're like."
"They're mostly juniors and seniors…" she began. Then she stopped and looked at Peters. "You talked to most of them yesterday. What more do you need to know?"
"Most?" Peters focused in on the important issue. "I only met most of them? Where were the others?"