Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (6 page)

When we pulled up again at Olson's Truck Rental there were two vehicles parked out front. One was a beat-up old pickup with an inch-thick layer of dried muck on it. The other was a ten-year-old Buick station wagon, one of the old-fashioned woody variety. Years of sitting outside had caused paint to flake and peel, including the paint on the fake-wood panels.

Unlatching the now-unlocked front door, I held it open long enough for Sue to step inside the storefront office. At a chest-high counter just inside the door stood an immense man. He wore a fleece-lined jacket over frayed Levi's and mud-spattered boots. Frowning with concentration, he was painstakingly filling in the blanks on a rental form. On the other side of the linoleum-topped counter stood a woman I assumed to be Mildred George. She was tall and angular with iron-gray hair cut in what we used to call a bob. She wore one of those short, wool jacket/ sweaters that would have been more at home in a country-club setting than in that run-down, dingy office.

From what Sue had told me, I knew Andrew George was Agnes Ferman's older brother. Agnes herself had been sixty-seven when she died. The brief glimpses I had caught of Andrew placed his age at anywhere from seventy-five to eighty. The poised, well-manicured woman behind the counter, however, looked to be a good deal younger than that—mid-to late-fifties, tops.

She waved to acknowledge our arrival without losing the beat of her telephone conversation. “We've been over this before, Mr. Tully,” she explained patiently. “Your son-in-law is not allowed to drive any of our vehicles—not even in an emergency. He's an unapproved driver, Mr. Tully. If Rob does use one of our trucks and has any kind of accident, the insurance is null and void and you're liable. Period.”

There was a pause. The woman held the phone away from her ear while Mr. Tully gave vent to a series of explosive-sounding comments.

“I know it's a busy time of year for your nursery business, Mr. Tully,” she said reasonably, once the tirade was finished. “It's busy for us, too. But Rob already had that one accident. And, as you know, he has two other tickets besides.”

There was another pause. “In that case,” she said. “I suggest you have one of your other employees do the driving.”

Another angry outburst blew through the phone line. It was loud enough for Sue and me to hear Mr. Tully sputtering although neither of us could make out any of the individual words.

“Of course I understand that based on this you may have to take your business elsewhere. If that's the case, we'll certainly be sorry to lose you…”

Mildred stopped talking in midsentence. A buzzing dial tone told everyone in the office that Mr. Tully had slammed down the receiver on his end. She put the phone down and calmly collected the paperwork the other customer had pushed across the counter in her direction. Meanwhile she smiled up at the behemoth of a man standing before her. She seemed totally unruffled by his size, his mane of wildly unruly red hair, his tattered red flannel shirt, or his several missing teeth.

“How long do you think you'll be needing the truck, Mr. Parker?” she asked politely.

“A week or so,” he said. “Two at the outside, but I'll have to let you know when we get a little closer to the end of the job.”

Mildred George and Mr. Parker set about finalizing the deal. Minutes later, Mr. Parker stuffed a wad of rental-agreement paperwork and a set of car keys into his pocket. “I'll be back for the truck in about an hour,” he said. “Soon as I get this one home and get my wife to drive me back.”

“That'll be fine,” Mildred George said with a gracious smile. “You know which truck is yours. You're welcome to come pick it up from the lot whenever it's convenient. As long as you have both the key and the rental agreement, you can do that even if the office is closed.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he said. “You've been a big help.”

As the door closed on the departing Mr. Parker, a poised and businesslike Mildred George turned to face us. “Good afternoon,” she said. “You must be the two detectives Grace Tipton called to tell me about earlier. What can I do for you?”

So much for our making an unannounced visit. “We're sorry about your sister-in-law,” I said, pulling out my ID and handing it across the counter. “We're looking for information that might help lead us to the person or persons responsible. Anything you could tell us about her friends, associates, or business dealings would be most helpful.”

Mildred George examined my ID carefully before handing it back. “I'm afraid I can't help you there,” Mildred said. “When it comes to Agnes, I don't know very much. We were notified of her death, of course, by the medical examiner. And since you're here, I'm assuming that her death is now being treated as a homicide, but beyond that, I don't know anything that would be of use.”

“I take it you weren't close?”

Mildred George laughed outright. “You could say that.”

“Estranged then?”

Mildred George smiled a sad smile that didn't extend all the way to her eyes. “No,” she said. “Estranged presupposes there was some closeness to begin with. In the case of Agnes Ferman and me, there was never any love lost.”

“When's the last time you saw her?”

“Christmas,” Mildred said. “We had dinner Christmas Eve at Hilda's house up in Marysville. Hilda is Andy's sister—his younger sister. She's also the family's self-appointed peace broker. I think she thought that if she put Andy and Agnes together in the same room, they'd end up burying the hatchet. That didn't happen, though. Hilda waited too long. Andy seems to recognize Hilda, but then he sees her several times a week. Before that Christmas dinner, the last time he saw Agnes was years ago at Lyle Ferman's funeral. Since then, he's slipped so badly that I don't think he had any idea who she was. Since he didn't remember her, he could hardly be expected to remember what it was they had quarreled about all those years ago.”

“Maybe your husband doesn't remember what the quarrel was all about,” Sue suggested quietly. “But do you?”

Mildred appeared to study Sue for some time before she answered. “They quarreled over me,” she said at last.

“Over you?”

“My sister-in-law didn't approve of me,” Mildred said quietly. “She was a good friend of Andy's first wife. Agnes and Betty went all through school together. Agnes has always regarded me as a home wrecker, even though Andy and Betty's home was wrecked long before I appeared on the scene.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Thirty-five years ago.”

“That's a long time to pack a grudge,” I suggested.

Mildred raised one artfully arched eyebrow. “When it came to grudges,” she said, “Agnes was an expert.”

“I see,” I said, wanting to follow that thread all the way to the end. “Can we assume then, if things have been that rocky between you and Agnes all these years, that you're not particularly broken up that she's dead?”

Mildred George shook her head. “No,” she agreed. “It would be downright hypocritical to pretend otherwise. I'm not sorry at all.”

“So where were you last Monday night?” Sue asked.

“I was home,” Mildred said at once. “Home with my husband.”

“Will your husband be willing to verify that?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Grace told me you were at the house this morning. You've seen Andy. His condition makes it so he barely recognizes me from day to day. He has no sense at all for the passage of time.”

“There's no one else who would know whether or not you were home all night?” Sue asked.

Mildred George shook her head. “I doubt it,” she said. “You'll just have to take my word for it. Andy and I were home alone. After he went to bed, I watched television for a little while, then I read a book.”

“What did you watch on TV?”

“Poirot,” Mildred answered. “
Law and Order
and Miss Marple.”

“So you're interested in mysteries. According to one of Agnes Ferman's neighbors there at Bitter Lake, she liked mysteries, too.”

“Is that so?” Mildred replied. “Well, you certainly couldn't prove it by me, but if it
is
true, I'd say that's one of the few things Agnes and I had in common.”

J
ust then a blue Saab pulled up out front. A beefy, middle-aged guy who looked like he belonged on the pro-bowling circuit got out of the vehicle then turned back to retrieve both a hound's-tooth sports jacket and a battered briefcase. He lumbered inside, carrying the jacket and briefcase in one hand while he yanked loose his red-and-blue-striped necktie with the other. Nodding as he passed, he slipped behind the counter. He disappeared momentarily into a small, cluttered office. After depositing the briefcase on the front corner of a desk, he reemerged.

“So what's happening?” He asked the question of Mildred while his eyes remained trained on Sue and me.

“These are police detectives,” Mildred explained. “From Seattle. They're here to talk to me about Andy's sister's death. They wanted to know what I was doing last Monday night.”

“What you were doing?” the man repeated. “You mean they're accusing you of having something to do with that fire business? Call an attorney, Millie. Get hold of Jack Hornsby right away. Tell him I told you to call. Let him know he should get his butt over here ASAP.”

“Please, Lonnie,” Mildred said. “It's nothing to get so wound up about. And I'm not calling Jack. I don't mind talking with these officers. I've nothing to hide. I already told them I was home with Andy all night long. Unfortunately, there's no way to prove it.”

Mildred hadn't bothered to introduce us. However, the proprietary way in which “Lonnie” pushed his wide girth around the place implied ownership—that and a certain amount of arrogant self-importance, as well.

“You're sure?” he demanded of Mildred.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm sure.”

Lonnie came back over to the counter then, pulling his pants up under the shelf of his generous belly. “It's ridiculous,” he said, scowling balefully at Sue and me. “I can't imagine that you're seriously considering the idea that Mildred might have had anything whatsoever to do with what happened.”

He looked for the world like a man who was spoiling for a fight. Fortunately for all concerned, Sue defused the situation by stepping up to the counter with her hand extended. “I'm Detective Danielson,” she said. “And this is my partner, Detective Beaumont. I don't believe I caught your name.”

The man waffled for a moment then took her proffered hand. “I'm Lonnie Olson,” he said, losing the scowl. “Glad to meetcha. I'm the owner here. I know you guys are just doing your jobs, but I got to say that thinking Millie could be involved in a murder is about the dumbest thing I've ever heard. She wouldn't hurt a fly. Not only that, she's a valued employee around here. A trusted employee. How you can walk around accusing…”

“Mr. Olson,” Sue interrupted. “We're not necessarily making accusations, but we are required to ask questions of everyone concerned with the case. And, if at all possible, we're expected to establish readily verifiable alibis from those same people. That's especially true of individuals who may stand to benefit as a result of the victim's death.”

“What makes you think Millie stands to benefit from her sister-in-law's death? Millie and Agnes Ferman barely spoke.”

It struck me as odd that Lonnie Olson was taking such an interest in every nuance of what was said. He seemed to be displaying far more than a concerned employer's level of interest in what was going on. I was about to tell him our questions addressed to Mildred were none of his business when the telephone did it for me.

“I'll take that call, Millie,” he said. “But don't let these cops push you around. If they get out of line, you call Jack, okay?”

Mildred George nodded. “I will,” she said. Then she turned back to us. “Tell me, Detective Danielson, how exactly is it that I stand to benefit from my sister-in-law's death?”

“Are you aware that our investigation has turned up a substantial amount of cash on Agnes Ferman's property?” Sue asked.

“Cash?” Mildred repeated. “You mean as in money?”

Sue nodded. “Quite a bit of it, actually. Over three-hundred-thousand dollars' worth. Hidden outside the house. It was concealed in an old refrigerator in her garage.”

For the first time, Mildred George looked stunned. “Three hundred thousand dollars,” she repeated. “That much?”

“So you knew she had money?” Sue pressed.

“I knew Agnes
claimed
to have money. At least that's what she told Hilda over the years, but I never really believed it. Where would that kind of money have come from? How did she get it?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” Sue explained. “We were hoping you'd be able to help us out.”

Mildred shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. “None at all.”

“Did your sister-in-law have a personal attorney?”

“A what? You mean a lawyer? I wouldn't know that, either. We weren't exactly on information-sharing terms. Why do you want to know?”

“As I told you, we've located the money,” Sue explained, “but so far we haven't been able to find any kind of will. That means we have no idea how she intended to distribute the funds. In addition, the Internal Revenue Service will probably have to ascertain whether or not taxes have been paid before the money can be released to any possible heirs. That being the case, we'll need to locate her accountant, if any, as well.”

“Well,” Mildred said. “I know nothing about her accounting situation, but as soon as you do find a will, that will certainly settle things. No matter how much money Agnes Ferman had, I can't imagine that she would have left Andy and me one thin dime.”

“She might have done so inadvertently,” Sue suggested.

“How's that?”

“In the absence of a properly executed will, the state dictates how property is divided. Generally speaking, that means the estate is divided among the next of kin. Agnes has no living children or grandchildren, correct?”

“That's true. She and Lyle never had any children. Agnes was far too busy taking care of other people's children to be bothered with raising any of her own. That was hard on Lyle. I think he really would have liked having a son.”

“As I understand it, her brother—your husband—and his sister—Hilda Smathers—are Agnes Ferman's only surviving relatives?”

Mildred nodded. “That's true. Other than our son and Hilda's two daughters, that's it.”

“So,” Sue continued, “in view of the fact that you have your husband's power of attorney, you would no doubt benefit as a result of having any of Agnes' money flow to your husband. Unfortunately, Mrs. George, that translates into possible motive. Now is there anyone at all—some neighbor perhaps—who would be able to say that you were home that night? Someone who might have seen your car parked out front all night long?”

Mildred sighed. “No matter what I say, you're still going to think I did it. So I could just as well go ahead and tell you the whole ugly story right from the beginning so you don't have to find out about it on your own. Andy and I met while he happened to be married to someone else. He was a social studies teacher and the head football coach at Everett High School. When I did my student teaching, he was my cooperating teacher, as we used to call them in those days.”

Lonnie Olson was still standing at the far end of the counter. All the while Sue had been talking to Mildred George, I had been listening to them with one ear while also attempting to be aware of what was going on with Olson's telephone conversation. As far as I could make out, the negotiations that rumbled back and forth had something to do with someone wanting several trucks to use to haul green peas back and forth to the processing plant when it came time for the harvest in June. When the call finally ended, Lonnie stood at the far end of the counter and stared at Mildred George, hanging on her every word.

Seemingly unaware of her boss' riveted interest, Mildred George continued with her story. “Andy and Betty—his first wife—had been married for fifteen years when I showed up on the scene. If everything had been perfect between them, maybe what happened never would have happened. Betty was a drinker, you see—a closet drinker. Andy would come home from school and find her passed out in bed. For years he did the usual things. He covered for her and made excuses. He was so wildly successful at it—so thorough at keeping a lid on things—that I don't believe anyone here in town ever guessed the truth of it. And that's how things stood when I came along.

“Andy was thirty-five when we met. I was twenty-two. It was love at first sight for both of us. There are a lot of people who don't believe in that kind of thing, but within days of our first meeting, we knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. And we have. Three weeks into the semester, Andy moved out of the house and filed for a divorce. Everything might have been fine, but one night late someone saw me leaving his apartment. Whoever it was—we never found out for sure who it was although I have my suspicions—called Betty, my supervising teacher at the University of Washington, and the president of the Everett school board. Overnight everything blew sky-high. My whole world fell apart, and so did Andy's.

“I never taught a day of school in my life after that. When it comes to being hired, an F in student teaching is a pretty stiff obstacle to overcome. Things weren't easy for Andy, either. Even though he had tenure, he was forced out of the district. He managed to land a job selling athletic equipment. That's what he was doing when we got married. From there he went on to start his own athletic store out on Evergreen Way. He ran that until three years ago when we lost it.”

“Lost it?” Sue asked.

Mildred nodded. “Several things hit all at once. For one thing, the margins were getting smaller and smaller all the time. Not only that, the cash flow shrank dramatically. Andy didn't really tell me what was going on. In fact, I see now that he must not have realized what was going on himself. He was already starting to get sick back then, only I didn't know it. He compensated enough that I didn't see what was happening until it was too late. Had Andy been himself, I'm sure things wouldn't have gotten so far out of hand. Little problems would have been handled in a timely fashion and they wouldn't have turned into disasters. As it was, those little problems snowballed into big ones. Then, of course, there was Colin.”

“Colin?” I asked. “Who's he?”

Wincing visibly, Mildred paused long enough to wet her lips. “Our son,” she said softly. “From the time he was in high school, Colin worked with Andy in the business. We expected to turn it over to him eventually. Four years ago, Andy made Colin comptroller of the company, put him in charge of finances. What no one knew at the time was that Colin had a cocaine problem. Before we caught up with him, he had managed to siphon hundreds of thousands of dollars out of the business and put it up his nose. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Bankruptcy court was our only option. We came out of the proceedings with little more than the clothes on our backs, the house on Harrison, and that eleven-year-old Buick station wagon you see parked right out front.”

“What about Colin?” I asked.

Mildred George took a deep breath. “He's in federal prison,” she said. “Down in Oregon. Income-tax-evasion charges and drug charges both. That's something else Colin did for us. For the better part of three years he didn't pay any payroll or income taxes. That's why I'm working—to pay off Uncle Sam. Back taxes don't go away in bankruptcy proceedings, by the way. I'm whittling them down a little at a time. If I keep on working, the bill should be paid in full by the end of five years.

“That's why I'm so lucky to have this job,” she added with a gesture that encompassed the whole office. “Even though I had never worked outside the home, Mr. Olson here was kind enough to take me on. He gave me both the job and the training to do it. Not only that, the office is close enough to home that I can be there within minutes if something goes wrong with Andy.”

“Getting back to Agnes,” Sue said. “I still don't understand why she objected so strenuously to your marrying her brother.”

“As I told you, Agnes was good friends with Betty. With Andy's first wife. The two of them grew up together. They were friends all through grade school and high school. Agnes was even maid of honor at Betty and Andy's wedding. So it wasn't just the fact that I married Andy and took him away from her friend. It also had a lot to do with what happened to Betty afterward.”

“What did happen to her?”

“Two weeks after the divorce was final, two weeks after Andy and I got married, Betty left a bar here in downtown Everett right at closing time. She must have been blind drunk at the time because she walked straight into traffic. An oncoming cab was the first vehicle that hit her. The cab knocked her into the path of a bread delivery truck. She died at the scene. Her blood-alcohol level was something like .35.”

“So Agnes was mad at you from then on.”

“No,” Mildred said. “I think she was mad at me long before that. She disliked me from the moment she knew I existed. It was easier for Agnes to hold Andy and me totally responsible rather than having to accept the idea that Betty, too, was partially at fault for what happened.”

I had seen the slight grimace that had crossed Mildred's face earlier when Sue mentioned the fact that the IRS would be wanting to know whether or not taxes had been paid on Agnes Ferman's money. Now I knew why. Agnes wasn't the only one in the family with a federal income tax problem.

“How much money do you and your husband owe in back taxes, Mrs. George?” I asked from the sidelines.

“Really,” Lonnie Olson objected, lumbering back down the counter. “That's about enough. I don't see that Mildred's dealings with the IRS are any of your business.”