Instead, Peters surprised me. "Sure, no problem. What about the memorial service after the funeral? Want me to handle that, too?"
"That would be great."
Dave Rimbaugh's house was a snug nineteen-thirties bungalow dwarfed by the evergreen trees that had grown up around it. The woman who came to the door was almost as wide as the door itself. Her pug nose and the rolling jowls of her face made her look like a bulldog. A nearsighted bulldog wearing thick glasses.
"Davey," she called over her shoulder. "Hon, there's somebody here to see you."
"Davey" wasn't a day under seventy. He was a spry old man, as lean as his wife was fat. They were a living rendition of the old Jack Sprat routine. His face lit up all over when Peters showed his ID and told him who we were and what we wanted.
"See there, Francie. I told you I talked to a real detective on the phone, and you thought I was pulling your leg." He led us into the living room. Every available flat surface in the room was full of glass and ceramic elephants of every size and description. Dave Rimbaugh noticed me looking at them.
"We've been collecting them for fifty-six years now," he said proudly. "There's more in the dining room. Would you like to see those?"
"No, thanks," I told him quickly, stopping him before he could hurry into the next room. "I can see you've got an outstanding collection, but we'd better get to work. Business before pleasure, you know."
"Good." Rimbaugh nodded appreciatively. "Don't like to waste the taxpayer's money, right?"
"Right," I said, sitting down on the wing-backed chair he offered me, while Peters sank into the old-fashioned, flower-patterned couch.
Rimbaugh rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Now then, what can I do for you boys?"
Peters grimaced visibly at the term "boys." It was clear "Davey" Rimbaugh regarded us as a couple of young whippersnappers. Doing his best to conceal his annoyance, Peters reached into a file folder and pulled out the fanfold of photographs. He offered them to our host.
"Take a look at these, Mr. Rimbaugh. See if there's anyone here you recognize, anyone you may have seen at the Coliseum last Friday night."
Dave Rimbaugh only had to glance through the pictures once before he pounced on Wheeler-Dealer's smiling countenance. "Him," he said decisively. "That's him. He was there."
Unable to contain her curiosity, Francie Rimbaugh got up from the couch and came over to her husband's chair. She stood behind him like she'd been planted there, leaning over his shoulder so she, too, could look at the picture in his hand.
"Why, forevermore!" she exclaimed. "I know him. Isn't that the man on the television, the one on the late movies? I think he sells cars. Or maybe furniture."
Dave Rimbaugh held the picture up to the light. "Why, Francie, I do believe you're right. He looked familiar at the time, but I just couldn't place him."
He patted his wife's rump affectionately and pulled her close to him. "Francie here, now she's the one with the memory for faces," he said. "Faces and names both."
"Do you remember when you saw this man?" Peters asked. "It's important that we know exactly when he was there."
Dave Rimbaugh leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, frowning with the effort of concentration. "All I remember is, I was drinking a cup of coffee at the time. Almost spilled it all over me when he rushed past. Said there was an emergency of some kind. Didn't ask him what, just let him go through."
"So what time was it?" Peters prodded. "Halftime? Later than that?"
"I don't know if it was halftime or not. They play a whole bunch of games each day during the tournament. Let's see. Wait a minute, I had only two cups of coffee that night. That was all that was left in the pot when I filled the thermos. When he almost knocked me down, I remember thinking it's a good thing it's almost time to go home, 'cause there isn't any coffee left."
I could see Peters was losing patience with trying to pull usable information out of the old man's ramblings. "What time did you get off work?" I asked.
"Nine o'clock," he said. "Isn't that right, Francie? I was home by ten, wasn't I?"
She nodded. "That's right. We watched the early late movie together before we went to bed. The old one with Gary Cooper in it."
"And how close was that second cup of coffee to the time you came home?"
"It was just before. Sure, that's right. Must have been right around eight." Rimbaugh looked at us triumphantly.
"You're sure you didn't see him after that?" Peters asked.
"Nope. Not that I remember."
Peters sighed and rose. I followed.
"Does that help?" Rimbaugh asked.
"I hope so," Peters replied. "We'll be back in touch."
Once outside, we held a quick conference. "What do you think?" Peters asked.
I shrugged. "Eight o'clock sounds like halftime to me."
"But he could have come back later, without Rimbaugh seeing him."
That, too, was a distinct possibility. As distinct a possibility as anything I'd come up with. There was no way to tell for sure.
So much for being the Grand Old Man of Homicide.
CHAPTER 21
Peters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my lunch hour, I took the Porsche and drove down to Sea-Tac to pick up Ralph Ames.
Ralph was a dapper-looking guy, an attorney's attorney. He had a low-key look about him that said he knew what he was doing. I probably never would have gotten to know him if I hadn't inherited him from Anne Corley. It took a while to get to know the man under his air of quiet reserve, but once I did, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy.
At the airport that day, when I went to pick him up, he had an uncharacteristic shit-eating grin on his face that worried me some, but not enough for me to do anything about it.
There was just time to grab him from the arriving-passenger level, hightail it back to town, and have him drop me at the department. He took my Porsche back to my place while Peters and I drove to Mercer Island High School, where we planned to have a chat with Molly Blackburn.
Ned Browning was most reluctant to call Molly out of class so we could talk to her. I have to admit that knowing the principal's name appeared not once but twice in the trophy list in the girls' locker room gave me a whole new perspective on his outward show of high principles and middle-class morality.
"Detective Beaumont, I'm not at all sure I should let you talk to one of my students without her parents' express knowledge and permission."
I wasn't feeling particularly tolerant toward that officious little worm. In fact, I became downright belligerent. "We don't have time to screw around, Mr. Browning. We need to see that girl today. Now."
"Certainly, you don't think one of my students had something to do with the murder!" There was just the right tone of shocked consternation in Ned Browning's voice. He should have been an actor instead of a high school principal. He gave an award-winning performance.
"Your students know a hell of a lot about a lot of things they shouldn't."
I let it go at that. There was no outward, visible sign that he understood the ramifications of what I said, yet I knew my seemingly casual remark had hit home. Finally, he reached for his phone and called for a student page to bring Molly Blackburn to his office.
Molly waltzed into the room like she owned the place. I recognized her as the blonde who had been pitching such a fit, literally bawling her eyes out, the day Peters and I had interviewed all those kids. Talk about acting!
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Browning?" she asked brightly.
"These gentlemen do," he replied. "You remember them, don't you, Molly?"