by Agnes Mayfield on August 1 of the same year. At last Lenora No Last Name was nameless no longer—she had both a middle name and a last one as well.
Based on what Hilda Tanner had told me, that meant that the properties had come to Lenora from her mother for free shortly after she’d carted Agnes, the previous owner, off to an assisted-living facility of some kind. Had the quitclaim deeds been signed while Agnes was still in possession of her faculties or not? And what about that lowball purchase price subsequently paid by Highline Development?
Something about all this reminded me of the deal Lenora’s great-grandfather had struck with a developer just before the stock-market crash of 1929. Based on that, I now had a pretty good idea of who it was who had already spoken for that one not-yet-built but no-longer-for-sale McMansion. It seemed all too plausible that Lenora had unloaded her mother’s properties for a below-market price in exchange for having a ready-made house free for the taking.
And if Lenora was a cheat, what about the people at Highline Development? Had they known about Agnes Mayfield’s mental-health issues at the time the quitclaim documents were signed? They might not have, but Lenora sure as hell did. Those realizations led me to one simple conclusion: All of Lenora’s actions here pointed in the same direction—a deliberate attempt to swindle Petey Mayfield out of his rightful share of his grandmother’s estate.
I could have sat down with the iPad and used my copy of LexisNexis to find out exactly what I needed to know, but in this case I decided to press the Easy Button. Heading back to the parking garage and knowing today was Scotty’s day off, I dialed his cell.
“Hey, Pop,” he said when he came on the line. I like it that he calls me that. “Great minds. Want to come over later today? We can assemble the crib first and then go to dinner at Fishermen’s Terminal.”
“Sounds good,” I said, “but first I need some help.”
Yes, it’s illegal for cops to use police resources to obtain private information, but it happens all the time. Don’t ask me how I know.
“I need an address and anything else you may have on a woman named Lenora Elizabeth Harrison. I believe she lives somewhere on the Eastside.”
“I’m at home today, but I can get it for you.” Less than a minute later, as I walked into the parking garage, a text from Scotty came through, giving me an address on 12th Avenue NE in Medina, Washington.
Medina, just north of the city of Bellevue, is an incorporated entity in its own right. It’s small enough that it should probably be referred to as a “burbette” rather than a suburb, but since Medina is also the location of Bill Gates’s massive Lake Washington digs, housing there probably boasts the highest per-square-foot costs of anywhere in the state. And since Hilda Tanner had told me that Lenora Mayfield had hooked up with a Microsoft exec, it made sense that he’d be looking for a nesting spot in that exclusive enclave.
Back in the car, I fed the address into my GPS. From where I was in downtown Seattle, the fastest way to get to the Eastside was across Lake Washington on the Evergreen Floating Bridge on 520. Back in the good old days—I wish that phrase didn’t come to mind so often—the 520 Bridge was free. It was also crowded. Now the structure has been rebuilt and reconfigured in a way that added lanes, but it’s definitely not free. It’s also not nearly as crowded. I suspect overpriced tolls have something to do with that. Mel and I have decals on our respective windshields that register the toll every time we cross the bridge, but whenever we have to refill our so-called Good To Go! account, it makes me want to grind my teeth. Drivers around here pay all kinds of gasoline taxes that are supposed to cover the costs of road construction and maintenance. Unfortunately, state governments aren’t required to live within their means the way taxpayers have to.
Offended by learning about the extent of Lenora’s sneaky scheming, I left downtown in a state of relative agitation. By the time I drove across the lake with Lucy’s chin welded to my shoulder, I had calmed down. I’ve learned to keep a washcloth in the car. It functions a lot like Alan’s burp rag for Athena. It keeps dog drool from dribbling down