disfigured Mercedes look like new again.
Sue Danielson gaped openly at the imposing mountain of house. âI wouldnât want it,â she announced with a disinterested shrug, and headed for the front door. âToo many bathrooms to clean.â
Better detachment than envy, I thought. As a working cop, Sue Danielson wasnât likely ever to end up living in circumstances anywhere near this kind of opulence.
She gave the doorbell an angry shove, and a man opened the door almost as soon as the bell stopped chiming. He was around fifty years oldâa fit specimen of upward mobility, dressed in an impeccable gray suit that was a perfect match forhis hair. The manâs mane of silvery hair was combed straight back in the classic style of a 1930s movie star.
âBonnie Elgin, please,â Sue said, opening her I.D. âIâm Detective Danielson, and this is Detective Beaumont. Weâre with the Seattle Police Department.â
The man shook Sueâs hand while his eyes drilled curiously into my face. âYouâre kidding me. Really? Detective Beaumont?â
I nodded. âThatâs the one.â
Smiling, he turned to me and offered his hand. âRon Elgin,â he said. âHang on a minute.â Then he turned back into the house.
âBonnie,â he called over his shoulder. âYouâll never guess who they sent. Detective Beaumont. Remember? The guy who donated the Bentley to the Rep.â
I couldnât believe it. The damn Bentley again! Who was it who said that no good deed ever goes unpunished? Had a hole opened up in that columned porch, I would have been more than happy to have disappeared into it.
âCome on in,â Ron Elgin said, totally unaware of my discomfort. He led the way into a marbled entryway with a spectacular vaulted ceiling. âBonnie will be thrilled to meet you, Detective Beaumont,â he continued. âAnd you, too, of course,â he added with a polite nod at Sue. âMy wife will be down in a minute. Would either of you care for some coffee?â
âCoffee sounds great,â I said.
Sue nodded. âCoffeeâs fine,â she said.
âJust go on into the living room and makeyourselves at home,â Ron Elgin directed. âThereâs a new pot of coffee that should be ready by now. It wonât take me a minute.â He hustled off.
As instructed, I walked into the living room and wandered over to a bank of windows that overlooked the Puget Sound shipping lanes. The fog had lifted just enough to reveal a huge grain ship moving sedately toward the grain terminal.
âGreat view,â I said, in a lighthearted but vain attempt to change the subject. Sue Danielson wasnât about to be thrown off-track.
âWhatâs this about donating a Bentley?â she demanded.
âItâs nothing,â I told her. âNothing at all.â
I would have been fine if Bonnie Elgin could have had the common grace and decency to back me up on that story. But she didnât. In her role as a member of the board of directors of the Seattle Repertory Theater Company, she had to come smiling into the living room, give me a big hugâas though weâd known one another foreverâand thank me personally for my generous donation.
In terms of my ability to get along with Sue Danielson, my new partner, that was the worst possible thing Bonnie Elgin could have done.
4
As an unwed mother with little education living in the post-World War II era, my mother supported us with her hands. We lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment over a bakery in Ballard. Mother took in sewing. The whole time I was growing up, she slept on the living-room couch. One bedroom was mine. In the other, Momâs treadle Singer sewing machine reigned supreme.
Over the years, she became an accomplished seamstress. The word seamstress sounds almost quaint now, like something out of another century, but thatâs what she was.