Obviously, Tex Barker had brought along the spirit of the Lone Star state as well as his name when he migrated to Washington.
The lady at the receptionist's desk wore a blue gingham outfit that would have been a lot more at home in a square dance convention than in an office. "Can I help you find someone?" she asked in the thick drawl I had expected from Madeline Barker.
"We're looking for Mr. Barker."
"He's on the phone just now, if you care to wait. Can I get you coffee, tea?"
"No, nothing. We're fine."
The waiting area had two genuine brown leather sofas with wheel spokes in the armrests. I hadn't seen one of those since the mid-fifties. I didn't know anybody still made them. The ashtray had a dead scorpion encased in it. I thought those were museum pieces as well.
"You've never seen any of his commercials?" Peters asked as we waited in the showroom full of cars.
"Never," I replied.
"It's interesting," Peters added.
"What is?"
"Now that I've met his wife. He's always offering to throw her in with the deal, if what they've got isn't good enough."
"Are you serious?" I thought about Madeline Barker. She didn't seem like someone who would enjoy that sort of thing, especially living among some of the more rarefied Mercer Island types. With a husband and a father like that, she and Bambi both must have had a lot to live down.
Not one but three hungry salesmen came by to pitch cars to us while we sat there. It was clear this was the good-ol'-boy, let's-go-out-and-kick-tires school of automobile salesmanship. They were particularly interested in pitching a T-bird Turbo Coupe that they all insisted was a "hot little number." I couldn't help wishing we had been driving my Porsche instead of the department's lukewarm Dodge.
Eventually, a door opened and Old Wheeler-Dealer himself sauntered out of his private office onto the showroom floor. He was a tall, handsome man in an aging cowboy way. He wore a dove gray western-style Ultrasuede jacket with a complex pattern embroidered on the front of the shoulders in flashy silver thread and a silver and turquoise bolo tie. His huge ten-gallon hat with its snakeskin band was tipped back on his head. I'm no fashion expert, but I guessed the alligator boots were of the real, rather than imitation, variety.
"How'do, boys. Understand y'all are waitin' for me?" Peters and I nodded. "Interested in one of our fine automobiles, here? We've got some sweet deals, I'll tell you, some really sweet deals."
"We're with Seattle P.D.," I said, handing him my identification. "Homicide. We're investigating Darwin Ridley's murder."
"What's that got to do with me?" Barker stuck out his chin and thrust my ID back into my hand.
"Plenty," I told him. "Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"
"Mind? I most certainly do. I got a business to run here. I can't waste my time answerin' no-account questions." He turned and started back into his office. I reached out and grasped the sleeve of his jacket.
"We've talked to Bambi," I said.
He turned and swung around toward me. "You what?"
"I said, we talked to Bambi. Down in Portland."
"Why, you worthless creep. I'll beat the holy shit out of you." He took a wild swing at me, but Peters caught his fist while it was still in transit. It was the second time that day someone had swung at me and missed. My nose was grateful. So were my front teeth.
"I think we'd be better off discussing this privately, Mr. Barker," Peters suggested.
Barker shook Peters' restraining hand off his arm. "Oh you do, do you? What makes you think I want to talk to you in private or otherwise?"
"It's not a matter of wanting," I told him evenly. "We've seen the picture," I added.
A look of barely controlled fury crossed Tex Barker's face. "Oh" was all he said. He turned away and stalked into his office. Peters and I exchanged glances before we followed him. He stopped at the door, let us into the room, then snarled at the gingham-clad receptionist outside, "I'm not to be disturbed!"
He slammed the door and pushed his way past us into his small but sumptuous office, taking a seat behind a large, imposing desk. He made no suggestion that we be seated. We sat uninvited.
"Bambi had nothin' to do with that man's death," he declared, speaking slowly, attempting to keep his voice carefully modulated, making a visible effort to maintain control. Despite his efforts, the words virtually exploded into the room as they left his lips.
"Did you see Darwin Ridley last Friday?" I asked. "Did you talk to him after you saw the picture that came in the mail that morning?"
He glared at me. "I did not!"
I knew he was lying. I can't say for sure how I knew. I just did. Maybe it was the momentary flicker in his eyes. "Where were you Friday night, Mr. Barker?"
"Home."
I shook my head. "No. Not all night. Someone came to the Coliseum and spoke to Darwin Ridley just at the end of halftime. Were you that person?"
Tex Barker's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And what if I was?" he demanded. "What if I stopped by long enough to tell that son of a bitch that if I ever caught him near my daughter again I'd cut his black balls off?"
"Did you?" I asked.
He slammed his fist on the desk, sending a coffee cup skittering dangerously close to the edge. "No, sir, God damn it! I didn't. Never got a chance. Some SOB beat me to it. It ain't often somebody catches Wheeler-Dealer flat-footed, but someone sure as hell outdrew me on this one."
"So you're saying you'd have killed him yourself if you'd had the chance?"
"Damn right."
Peters had been observing this exchange from the sidelines. "What did you say to him when you saw him?"
"That he was a dead mother if I ever caught him within fifty miles of Bambi."
"I'd be willing to bet that wasn't news to him"
A self-satisfied grimace touched the corners of Barker's mouth. "No it wasn't. He'd gotten my message."
"What message? From his wife?"
Barker nodded. "That's right."
"And when did you tell him that?"
"Just at the end of halftime. I caught up with him after the team went on the floor."
"Let me get this straight," I said. "You came to the Coliseum, tracked him down during halftime, and told him that if he ever came near your daughter again, you'd kill him. Where'd you go after that?"
"Home."
"Straight home?"
Barker shrugged noncommittally.
"What time did you get there?"
"Ten. Eleven. I don't know, don't remember. I didn't look at the clock."
"I'd suggest you try to remember, Mr. Barker," I warned him. "We're dealing with homicide here. You have motive and you have opportunity. Within hours of the time of the victim's death you threatened to kill him. If I were you, I'd go looking for an alibi. Someone besides your wife," I added.
Barker glared back at me. "I don't need no fuckin' alibi. If I'd killed the son of a bitch, I'd be down at police headquarters braggin' about it."
That could have been the truth. Wheeler-Dealer didn't strike me as a man who would hide his light under a bushel, even if that light happened to be murder.
We were there a while longer. When we left and were making our way back to the car, Peters asked, "What do you think?"
"I don't think it was him."
Peters sounded shocked. "You don't? Why not?"
"His ego's all bound up in this. He's pissed because someone beat him out of getting even. Believe me, had he done it, he'd be yelling it to high heaven."
"Beau, he's suckering you. That's exactly what he wants us to believe."
"We'll see," I said. "What say we drive over to the school and check out the names in the locker?"