Three Strikes and You're Dead (34 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
“Hope what?”
“That she isn’t off on some jaunt and putting everyone to so much trouble, especially the police.”
“Frankly,” I said, “if that
is
what happened, you’ll be greatly relieved. It would mean that she’s alive and well.”
is
what happened, you’ll be greatly relieved. It would mean that she’s alive and well.”
“I know,” she said, nodding earnestly, “and I pray Willie is all right. But it would be so embarrassing if she’s off having fun and the police have been knocking themselves out trying to find her.”
“Let’s wait and see,” I suggested. “More coffee or tea?”
I refilled our cups and returned to her.
“I did get a call,” she said, “from one of Willie’s husbands.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The next to last.” She laughed. “I used to joke with Willie that she should number her husbands, like baseball players. You know, like the old saying, you can’t tell the players without a scorecard.”
“Sounds like a sensible suggestion,” I said, laughing along with her.
“Willie thought it was funny, too.”
“What did this particular husband have to say when he called?”
“He said he’d been trying to contact Willie without success. He wanted to know if I knew where she was.”
“Did you tell him that she’s missing?”
“Oh, sure. He was shocked, very concerned.”
“Had you met him?”
“No. I never met him—his name is Howard—or the husband who came after, her most recent. Both were very short marriages. I don’t think either one lasted a year.”
I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Your sister has cut quite a swath, hasn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so, Jessica. Sometimes I’m embarrassed about how Willie has lived her life, but I always remind myself that it’s her life, not mine, and that she’s entitled to live it any way she chooses. Still . . .”
“They’ll be boarding our flight soon,” I said. “The airlines are closing the doors earlier these days to try and maintain a better on-time record.”
“Then we should go.”
We grabbed our carry-on bags and headed for the departure gate. A few minutes later, the call was made for first-class passengers to board. I gave Kathy a hug and said, “See you in Seattle.”
As I stood and gathered my belongings to join others in the line, Kathy said absently, as though talking to no one in particular, “It must be the gold.”
Her words caused me to stop and turn back to her. “What gold?”
“The gold Willie is convinced the brothel madam might have left us.”
“Brothel madam?”
“All first-class passengers should be on board,” the agent at the boarding desk announced, sounding as though she meant it.
“Go on, Jess,” Kathy said.
“Gold? Brothel madam?”
I muttered to myself as I went to the gate, showed my boarding pass, and entered the plane to be seated in first class.
“Gold?”
I repeated aloud.
“Brothel madam?”
I muttered to myself as I went to the gate, showed my boarding pass, and entered the plane to be seated in first class.
“Gold?”
I repeated aloud.
“Brothel madam?”
“Pardon?” a flight attendant said.
“What? Oh, sorry,” I said. “Just talking to myself.”
She gave me a strange look but managed a smile as I settled into the large, comfortable seat.
Gold? Brothel madam?
It was virtually all I could think of for the duration of the six-hour flight to Seattle.
Gold? Brothel madam?
It was virtually all I could think of for the duration of the six-hour flight to Seattle.
The weather was clear as we approached the Seattle-Tacoma airport, affording those of us on one side of the plane a splendid view of Mount Rainier. The thought of spending a few days in the city prior to departing on the cruise wiped away any fatigue I might have been experiencing. Seattle is less than 150 years old, and it’s known as the Emerald City, or Jewel of the Northwest, worthy of either label in my opinion. I’ve always enjoyed my time there; the easy mix of people and the spectacular views in virtually every direction are a true spirit booster.
First-class passengers were the first to deplane. I waited until Kathy eventually came through the door.
“Nice flight,” she said. “I wasn’t nervous, except for all those strange noises before we landed.”
“All normal,” I said. “Landing gear being lowered and locked into place, flaps extended, routine things like that.”
“That’s right,” she said as we headed in the direction of baggage claim. “You know all about planes.”
“I know very little,” I said. “Just enough to get myself in potential trouble when I’m flying.”
A cab whisked us to the downtown area, where we checked into the lovely Fairmont Olympic Hotel. I’d stayed there a few times before. This princely hotel, located on the southern edge of the retail center, has been operating since the 1920s and has been luxuriously restored to its former splendor, with all the expected amenities befitting a four-star property. Our rooms, each a small suite, were adjoining.
It was midafternoon, and after unpacking we met up for a walk. The sun shone brightly, and there was a slight breeze off the water that surrounds the city. Seattle’s reputation for excessive, almost unrelenting rain, is a myth. Its annual rainfall is actually less than that of any major city on the East Coast. What fuels its wet reputation is a tendency for cloudy, misty weather—not rainfall, just a pervasive dampness. But there are plenty of fair days, too, and this was one of them.
“When is your book signing?” Kathy asked as we maintained a brisk pace to work out the kinks from having sat too long in the plane. Kathy is an inveterate walker, always seen around Cabot Cove in motion on her way someplace, arms swinging, legs moving in a regular rhythm, a determined expression on her face. She’d changed into a sweat suit and sturdy sneakers. Kathy is a short, chunky woman, perhaps a shade over five feet, two inches, with a full, round face, expressive blue eyes, and brunette hair worn simply. She often complains about being overweight, although she isn’t. She’s simply one of those compact, physically fit people without an ounce of excess flesh.
“Tomorrow, at noon.”
“Is it all right if I come?”
“Of course it is. I’d love to have you there.”
“I always come to your signings in Cabot Cove, and I went to that one in Boston a few years ago,” she said as we paused to window-shop.
“Seattle is different,” I offered, setting off again. “Maybe it’s because of the generally overcast weather, but Seattle probably has more bookstores than any other comparable city in the country, and more book buyers per capita than anywhere else. They devour books here, which is good for us writers. By the way, I’ve made a dinner reservation for us tonight at Canlis. Hope you don’t mind my not conferring with you.”
“Why would I mind?” she said. “You know Seattle. Besides, I trust your palate, Jessica.”
“I think you’ll enjoy Canlis,” I said. “It’s set in the hills with wonderful views of the city and beyond.”
“Sounds yummy. I’m suddenly hungry.”
Canlis might possibly be the most beautiful restaurant in America. With stone columns soaring high above the dining room, and light and landscape flooding in through a translucent wall, the restaurant has an almost Zen-like atmosphere. We were seated at a prime table affording a fine view of the city as dusk began to settle. Because I’d raved about my last meal there, Kathy insisted that I order for us, which I did—Canlis chowder to start, rich with Dungeness crab, sea scallops, and prawns in a heavenly ginger-scented cream, and a sublime salad, followed by an entrée of wild Pacific king salmon with hazelnut-caper butter, and jumbo asparagus, all accompanied by a shared bottle of DeLille Cellars Chaleur Estate Blanc from Washington’s Columbia Valley, recommended by our sommelier.
“Kathy,” I said as we enjoyed our first sip of the wine, “you said at the airport that your sister’s disappearance might have to do with gold and a brothel madam?”
“Just thinking out loud,” she said.
“Thinking about gold and brothels?”
She nodded, laced her fingers around her glass, and stared down into it. “I’m embarrassed that I even brought it up.”
“But now that you have, you can’t keep me dangling like this. What gold? What brothel madam?”
She turned to look at me, exhaled loudly, and said, “Dolly Arthur.”
“Who’s she?”
“She’s—well, she was the most famous madam in Alaska’s history.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Kathy. But what does it have to do with Wilimena?”
“It’s a very long story.”
“We have all evening. Could it possibly have to do with Wilimena’s disappearance?”
“Maybe. How do I begin?”
“At the beginning, Kathy. At the very beginning.”
By the time our coffee and dessert had been served—peanut butter mousse with a chocolate cookie crust and caramelized banana—we were both sated and somewhat drowsy. But while the Canlis dining experience had taken center stage, the conversation was equally satisfying, and provocative. Kathy had spun a tale of gold and madams in detail for me, and quite a tale it was.
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