Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(96)

“You know that framed pencil drawing of your mother?”

“The one that says ‘Would you like to hang out sometime’?” His mouth screwed up when he repeated the words, as though it was weird to have to consider his parents in those kinds of terms—as though the idea that they might have been young and in love once was somehow beyond the pale.

I nodded and held up my place mat. “This is what it was drawn on,” I told him, “a place mat from Zig’s Place. Do you draw?”

“A little,” Jimmy admitted with a self-conscious shrug, “but I’m not very good at it.”

“Your father was terrific when it comes to drawing. You’ll need to ask your Uncle Jared to show you the portrait your father did of your grandmother.”

“Your partner you mean,” Jimmy asked quietly.

He had me there. Jimmy’s Internet search about the clash between Sue and Rich Danielson was still bearing fruit.

“Yes,” I agreed with a lump in my throat, “she was definitely my partner.”

Just then a gigantic human shadow fell over our table. Jimmy and I both looked up to see the looming figure of Siegfried Norquist standing there. When I noticed he was cradling something in the crook of his arm, I knew exactly what it was.

“You must be Chris Danielson’s son,” he said, beaming down at Jimmy, holding out his massive hand. “I’m so glad to meet you. You look just like your father.”

“Is it true that he worked here?” Jimmy asked.

Ziggy smiled. “It certainly is. Your father was a fine young man—upstanding and dependable, and talented, too. Here’s something he drew for me.”

With a flick of his hand, Ziggy turned the framed pencil portrait so Jimmy could see it.

“Who’s that?” the boy asked.

“My wife,” Ziggy explained, “my late wife. Her name was Sonja. She managed the restaurant at the same time your dad worked here. One night when we weren’t very busy, he sketched this. He tossed it in the trash, but one of the waitresses spotted it and gave it to me. Sonja died two years ago, and I keep this in the kitchen with me. I was so sorry when he disappeared.”

“He’s dead now, too,” Jimmy said quietly. “Someone found his body a long time ago, but they’ve only just now identified it.”

Marvin Price and the AST might not have made any official announcements about Chris Danielson’s homicide up to that point, but the story was out in public now, and I didn’t care. After all, this was Jimmy’s family and his story to tell.

The welcoming smile vanished from Ziggy’s face. “I’m so sorry to hear that, so very sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Our waitress showed up just then, carrying our order. Ziggy stepped aside and watched as she delivered the plates of food to our table. The last thing she put down was our ticket.

“There’s one thing I can do,” Ziggy said, grabbing the tab and stuffing it into the pocket of his pants. “Breakfast is on me.”

I have to say, cold winter weather or not, the little burg of Homer, Alaska, was starting to grow on me. Or as Jimmy Danielson would say, Really starting to grow on me.





Chapter 37




With Christopher James Danielson finally stuffed to the gills, we left the restaurant and drove to the hospital. When we arrived, we found an Alaska State Trooper vehicle as well as one from Homer PD parked end to end in the tow-away zone outside the front entrance. Inside, the woman at the reception desk informed us that Mr. Adams had been moved from ICU to a regular room. When we started in that direction she called after us, “Wait, children under sixteen aren’t allowed.”

With cop cars parked right outside the front door, I figured I was golden. “Jimmy here is a witness, and the detectives need to speak to him.”

“Okay, fine,” she relented. “Go ahead.”

In the hallway outside an open door, I spotted Nitz engaged in a low-voiced huddle with two individuals, one of whom was Marvin Price. The one I didn’t recognize was a woman wearing a pantsuit and a pair of boots that were more of a fashion statement than they were weather-related. Nitz broke away from her companions as soon as she saw us and hurried over to gather her son in her arms.

“Jimmy,” was all she said as she held the boy tight. Nitz looked weary beyond words but far better than I would have expected after an all-night vigil.

“How are things?” I asked.

“He’s sleeping right now,” she answered. “The doctors have upgraded his condition to fair.”

“So he’s going to make it?”

She nodded, then added, “But there may be some residual long-term damage.”

I was puzzling over that when Marvin approached. He, too, looked as though he’d pulled an all-nighter but with far more visible ill effects than Nitz displayed. He clearly hadn’t gone home to change. By contrast the woman accompanying him—perfectly made up and with every hair in place—looked fresh as a daisy.

“Glad to see you,” Marvin said. “You were scheduled to be our next stop. Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Genevieve Madison of the AST. And this is J. P. Beaumont from Seattle, the private investigator who brought this matter to our attention.”