Part 22 (2/2)

I produced my wallet and ID and handed it over. ”I'm J. P. Beaumont,” I explained as he peered at it through bleary, bloodshot eyes. ”This is my a.s.sociate, Melissa Soames. We're with the attorney general's Special Homicide Investigation Team. We're looking for Tom Landreth.”

”That's me,” he mumbled. ”Did you say homicide? Whaddya want?”

I had known Tom Landreth was about three years older than his first wife, but compared with the quiet-spoken, dignified Faye, this guy appeared to be a loudmouthed, doddering old man. He was also a drunk.

They say it takes one to know one. I knew Tom Landreth was a drunk the moment he opened the door. I knew it even before I saw the beaker-sized gla.s.s of scotch-scotch with no ice-that he held in one hand. There was booze in his hand, booze on his breath, and booze leaking out of his pores. When people in AA meetings talk about ”drinking and stinking,” they aren't kidding. Poor Tom Landreth was a textbook case.

”We'd like to talk to you about Madeline Marchbank,” I said.

Tom staggered back on his heels. He might have fallen over backward if Mel hadn't reached out, grabbed his elbow, and steadied him. Once he regained his balance he shook off her hand and then glowered at me.

”Madeline? Whaddya want to know about her for?” he asked. ”Been dead a long d.a.m.ned time. Who cares anymore?”

”That's what we were wondering,” I said. ”Who does care? Someone must. Mind if we come in?”

Reluctantly, Tom stepped aside and allowed us into what should have been a gracious living room. It wasn't. The place was a wreck. A disorderly jumble of old newspapers, stacks of magazines, loose mail, and dirty dishes covered every flat surface. The dirty carpet was mostly invisible beneath heaps and mounds of unwashed clothing. Someone was willing to pay to maintain the outside appearance of the place and make it look as though it still belonged in this neighborhood. Inside, they didn't bother to keep up the pretense.

Seemingly unaffected by the filth, Tom led us through the debris. He halfheartedly swiped some of the mess off a grimy couch, clearing a place for us to sit. I couldn't help thinking about Faye Landreth in her tiny but immaculate downtown condo. And I thought about Raelene Landreth wearing her designer outfit and sitting behind her polished desk in the Marchbank Foundation office. There was nothing in the mess that looked as if it belonged to Raelene, making me wonder if she didn't hole up in some other part of the house, as far away from her drunken husband as she could get.

Faye Landreth may have thought she had gotten the short end of the stick when Raelene moved in on her marriage, but right then-sitting on a dirty couch in that filthy living room-I knew that, no matter what the financial arrangements, Faye was better off than she would have been had she stuck it out.

Tom Landreth cleared off a nearby chair and dropped heavily onto it. Despite his inebriation, he managed this maneuver without spilling any of his scotch. Not only was he a drunk, he was a practiced drunk.

”Sorry about that-the mess, I mean,” he said after taking a long drink. ”Cleaning lady quit, you know. Wife can't seem to find another.” He slurred his words despite an obvious effort on his part to enunciate clearly. ”What was it you want again?”

”To talk about Madeline Marchbank,” I said.

”That's right, that's right,” he muttered. ”My father's partner's sister. Died young. Murdered. Tragic loss-tragic.” He took another drink. He tapped his foot. ”Never solved, either,” he added.

”You're right,” I agreed. ”It was never solved.”

”So why're you talking to me about it?”

”I believe the murder took place on your wedding day-the day you married your first wife.”

”Yes,” he said, nodding. ”I guess it did.”

”Two people involved in that case, Albert and Elvira Marchbank, were dropped from the list of suspects because detectives were told they had been in Canada attending your wedding.”

Tom Landreth frowned in wary concentration, the way drunks do when they know the conversation has gone too far but they're too smashed to do anything but answer. ”Right,” he said at last. ”They were there all right, Albert and Elvira.”

”Who else was there?”

He stared at me dumbly.

”At the wedding,” I prodded. ”Who else attended?”

”Well, Faye, of course,” he said. ”And her parents.”

The bride and her parents. I gave the man credit for going for the obvious. ”What about your grandparents?” I asked. ”The Crosbys. Were they there?”

”My mother's parents?” He looked puzzled. ”I don't remember. It was a long time ago, for chrissakes. More than fifty years.”

”You can't remember if your grandparents were there, but you're sure Albert and Elvira Marchbank were?”

Landreth stood up, swayed slightly, got his bearings, then lurched across the room. On the far side of the living room was a wet bar, the granite countertop littered with countless dead-soldier Dewar's bottles standing at attention. He refilled his gla.s.s, took a drink, and then stared at me belligerently.

”They were there,” he declared. ”That I do remember!”

”Good,” I said rea.s.suringly. ”Fine. I'm glad to hear it. Now, about Wednesday.”

”What about Wednesday?”

”Did you hear from Elvira that day?”

He blinked once before he answered as if sensing a trap. ”No,” he said then. ”Of course not.”

”Why 'of course not'?” I asked. ”You and Elvira were close, weren't you? You're sure she didn't call you on Wednesday afternoon to tell you about her unexpected visitor?”

”No,” he repeated. ”I don't know anything about a visitor. No idea what you're talking about.”

Had it been up to me, I probably would have left right then, but that was when Mel turned on the charm and went into action.

”Come on, Mr. Landreth,” she said. ”You see, we already know about the phone call. We know that an eyewitness from that old case came to visit Elvira. I'm guessing she called to tell you-to warn you-that she had decided to do the right thing and turn herself in.”

Landreth stared at Mel. His mouth dropped open. ”You've got no right to tap my phone. I've done nothing wrong.”

In his effort to be cagey, Landreth had tripped himself up. We had the phone records, but he had made the a.s.sumption that we had somehow heard what Elvira had said to him.

”So that is what she said?” Mel probed.

”I couldn't believe she'd do such a thing,” Tom declared. ”I asked her that-why after all these years? And do you know what she said? That she was going to dissolve the Marchbank Foundation and sell off all the a.s.sets-just like that. After all the work Raelene and I have done. Elvira said there was no point. That once people heard about what happened to Madeline, it would all be over anyway. We wouldn't be able to raise another dime.”

”How would she go about doing that?” Mel asked. ”Dissolving the foundation, I mean.”

”The board of directors would have to agree.”

”And they are?”

”Elvira, of course, myself, and a longtime friend of the family.”

”This longtime friend wouldn't happen to be named William Winkler, would he?” I asked.

Tom looked at me balefully. ”As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. ”But no one calls him William. Dad always called him Wink. My father didn't mind when the Marchbank name was the one that went on the foundation. Even though he and Albert were partners, that was the name of the company as well-Marchbank Broadcasting. But Dad was the one who insisted that Wink be on the board of directors. He said it was important to have someone impartial on it, someone who wasn't directly involved.”

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