Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 2

"That would be very nice," she said, grinning. She a.s.sumed that whatever the criminal matter was with Dr. Minick, Will Thaxton did not want to be left out entirely. And now she wouldn't be able to change clothes, she thought, disgruntled, not with a doctor paying a house call.

Dr. Minick arrived in twenty minutes. Although he looked to be old, possibly older than her father, seventy-something, with thinning silver hair and a slight stoop, he was still a big man, tall and ma.s.sive through the chest; when he shook hands with her, she was amazed at the size of his hands and the gentleness of his grasp. Probably he had to order custom-made shoes, she thought, finishing her survey of him. She motioned toward the chairs and sofa by a pretty coffee table. He was too big to fit comfortably in one of her clients' chairs by the desk. He put a bulging briefcase on the floor by his feet when he sat down.

"Did you read about the murder of Gus Marchand, and the accidental death of his wife?" Dr. Minick asked, getting to the point instantly.

"Yes, of course." The newspapers had been full of the story.

"Are you involved?"

"Not directly. But I'm afraid a young friend of mine may become involved."

He told her about Dolly and Arnold Feldman and their son, Alexander; how he came to meet Alexander; their move to Oregon. He told her about Xander, who flew away when he could no longer deal with things. Then he told her about Alex.

"He's a fine young man who had a hideous birth accident. He's very intelligent, and a gifted caricaturist and artist. Ten years ago he sent a comic strip to a local newspaper, unsigned, with a note saying if they liked it, they could use it. A few months later, when it had not appeared in print, he did it again, a.s.suring the editor that he was the artist and was giving his permission for them to use his material. This time they printed the strips, with a notice about the mysterious creator. They were very well received, and Alex sent in more of them, along with some political cartoons. They began to run his material regularly, and always with a plea for him to come forward, sign a contract, be paid. If Alex had planned the mystery of the artist as an advertising ploy, it would have demonstrated genius at work, but he simply is determined to remain anonymous. The comic strip is attributed to Anom. The political cartoons are by X."

He cleared his throat, and Barbara realized he had been talking for almost an hour. "Would you like coffee, tea? Something?" she asked, getting to her feet.

"Coffee would be fine," he said. "You're a very good listener, Ms. Holloway, but a break would be welcome."

Barbara went out to the reception room, where she found that Maria had already made coffee and prepared a tray. Maria looked very smug.

"I thought you might want something after such a long time," she said. "I'll carry it if you'll open the door."

Barbara glared at her. There had been a running battle ever since she hired Maria over who would make the coffee. Barbara insisted that she had hired a secretary, not a servant, and Maria insisted that she just wanted to help, and besides, her coffee was better than Barbara's. That was true, Barbara had to admit, although for G.o.d's sake, anyone could make a pot of coffee.

Seated across the table from Dr. Minick once more, she heard the rest of the history. Minick had gotten in touch with Will Thaxton, who had been delighted to share the secret and act as go-between. Contracts and money were all funneled through him to Dr. Minick and Alex. He had managed to preserve the boy's privacy. Now there was a New York agent who handled much of the business and had never met his client. He dealt with Will Thaxton also. And there was a website that, if anyone cared to trace it, would lead back to Thaxton.

"A few years ago Alex began to lead a group of adolescent boys in an after-school game of Dungeons and Dragons. You know the game?"

"A little. Role-playing, interactive, something like that."

"Like that. Those boys had been rowdy, hard to manage, and he tamed them right down with his dungeon. He'd go in dressed like Darth Vader." He paused to look at her, and she nodded. She knew Darth Vader. "But one of the boys was especially difficult to control, and when his character was killed, he wouldn't leave the game. He kept laughing and mocking Alex, who finally stood up, gathered his materials, and stalked out, with the boy laughing behind him. The following week when the game resumed, the same boy was there ready to pick up where he left off. Alex asked the group where their characters were, and they told him in a corridor or something, and he said the floor had just dropped out from under them, and that all of them had fallen to their deaths. Game over. Next bunch could move in. There was a waiting list, of course. Oh, they protested, but he wouldn't budge. Anyway, one of the boys whose character met an untimely death was Daniel Marchand. He told his father about the game, how unfairly he had been treated, and heaven only knows what else. Gus stormed the school the next day, ranting about devil worship, satanic rituals of raising the dead, calling up demons and devils, witchcraft...."

He helped himself to more coffee. "The game stopped there, of course. I don't know how Gus found out it was Alex behind that mask, but he did, and he began to rant about letting the devil enter the school where innocent children gathered."

He paused, gazing at the wall behind Barbara. At the moment he looked ancient and tormented. "There were other incidents. I'll just relate one more and get on with it. He saw Alex driving me to the grocery one day, and the next time we were out with Alex at the wheel, we were stopped by a sheriff's deputy who said there was a report that an unlicensed driver was menacing others on the road. Alex had a license, as it happened, and there had been nothing in his driving to attract attention."

He waved his hand, as if to clear the air. "That's enough history, but it gives you the background for the rest. Last week Gus showed up with a different deputy and accused Alex of spying on his daughter, of stalking her." He drew in a long breath and leaned back in his chair, this time gazing at the ceiling as he continued. "Alex, physically, is what the girls would call a hunk, a beautifully built young man in his prime. An accusation of stalking a girl of thirteen would make the rounds and be believed by those who want to believe the worst, and there are quite a few of them."

He told her about Rachel. "She lied about him, and there's no reason to believe that she'd recant. Covering her a.s.s, isn't that the expression?"

"He said, she said," Barbara commented with a shrug. "What else?"

"Gus topped it off by saying he planned to build forty houses on the lot adjoining mine. I don't believe he could, but it was meant to be a threat, and it worked as one."

"And then Gus Marchand got himself murdered," Barbara said. "I read about it, but tell me more."

"They called 911, and then called me. I was just next door, and they said if there was a chance to save Gus, maybe I could do something. I couldn't. He was dead, the back of his head bashed in by a hammer that was still by the body. His wife was at the school, helping out with the graduation ceremony, and some idiot took it in his head to go tell her the news. She raced toward home, crashed her car, and died during the night."

He regarded Barbara soberly for a moment, then said, "There hasn't been too much of a cry for justice, but there will be. Gus was not well liked, I imagine, but he was respected, a well-to-do farmer who was a leader in various crusades, outspoken and listened to, active in his church, in local organizations. And Leona, his wife, was loved by just about everyone who got to know her. She was a gentle, caring woman who did little things for folks on the side. There will be a growing cry, a scream of outrage for the killer to be brought to justice. And I suspect it will start soon."

Barbara nodded, then said, "But why Alex? Why not a stranger, a different neighbor?"

"The tree inspector and Mike Bakken were on the other side of Opal Creek for over an hour that evening; they say there was one car that went by, Hilde Franz's car, and she turned in at my driveway and a few minutes later left again. They saw Leona Marchand leave in her car, and no one else was on the road the entire time they were out in Mike's orchard. You'll have to come and have a look for yourself, but if that's what they say, it's probably right. They would have seen anyone in a car pa.s.s by."

Barbara shook her head impatiently; eyewitnesses provided the most unreliable of all testimony. Dr. Minick held up his hand, not quite finished yet.

"Yesterday detectives came to ask Alex questions, and they were not friendly. I'm afraid they will accuse him, and, Ms. Holloway, if they do, and if he is forced to stand trial, they more than likely will convict him. Without a shred of evidence, without an overwhelming motive, with nothing more than his appearance to sway them, they will decide he's guilty."

They talked further, and then Barbara said, "Dr. Minick, there are aspects of this situation that are very disturbing. For one thing, why isn't Alex here with you? Will he fight for himself? Will he cooperate with me? Or even agree to see me? And whom will I meet: Alexander, Xander, or Alex? Who is he now, Dr. Minick?"

He nodded approvingly. "To be quite truthful, Ms. Holloway, I don't know who he is right now. He's withdrawn and not communicating. He'll see you, and I hope cooperate. He knows the trouble he could be in. I brought samples of his work for you to see, his cartoons and his comic strip. Also his complete medical record. If the authorities ask for it, I can truthfully say I don't have it."

A delaying tactic, she knew; if they wanted it, they would get it one way or another. "Okay. I'll come out tomorrow, eleven or so, and meet your friend. I won't commit myself until we've met and he agrees to accept me, you understand."

"I understand perfectly," he said, rising from his chair.

She walked out with him through the office and shook his hand before he left. She suspected that he understood perfectly that she had already committed herself to defending Alexander Feldman if the need arose.

Frank Holloway liked to say he was retired, or mostly retired, with just a few things to finish up first, a few old clients who wouldn't let go. In fact, he enjoyed his daily walk to the office, enjoyed seeing the eager young attorneys bustling about, enjoyed bantering with his secretary, Patsy, baiting the other senior partner, Sam Bixby, now and then, searching for some obscure piece of legislation or case law.

Now, waiting for Hilde Franz, he was recalling the first time she had come to him for advice when Gus Marchand had threatened to sue her, one of her teachers, and the whole school system over what he had called a matter of brainwashing and mysticism. Hilde had stood her ground; she would have gone the distance, but the young teacher had fled in terror. Her first year of teaching, no money, the threat of a lawsuit, she had caved in and run home, back East somewhere.

During the year that Frank had worked on Hilde's behalf, he had become very fond of her. Mistake, he told himself now, as he had done then, as he did frequently. Don't form any attachment to the clients, or you could be blind to their shortcomings.

When Patsy tapped on the door, he got up to admit Hilde Franz. She was even better looking than he remembered, he thought, taking her hands, drawing her toward the comfortable chairs across the office from his desk. He greatly admired her l.u.s.trous chestnut-colored hair; a few gray hairs enhanced its beauty, and didn't add a single apparent year to her. He especially admired her wonderful complexion; she had baby skin. "You look terrific," he said. "Coffee, wine, anything?"

She shook her head, smiling slightly. "Later, maybe."

Patsy withdrew, and Hilde sat in the chair she had sat in years before. She gazed about the office, then at Frank, and said, "It's like a time warp in here. Nothing changes. You don't change."

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it," Frank said. "What can I do for you, Hilde?"

"Did you read about Gus Marchand's death?" she asked.

Frank nodded. "He's the proverbial bad penny, dead or alive, still bringing trouble. What now?"

"They suspect I killed him," she said in a low voice.

"Good G.o.d! Why?"

"Right now they're interested in opportunity; it seems I qualify. But they'll soon get around to motive, and G.o.d knows I had motive."

Frank held up his hand. "One thing at a time. Let's start with motive."

"His daughter was in my school...." She told the story simply and completely. "At the PTA meeting he claimed I gave that book to Rachel and that I encourage the girls to wear scanty clothes and use makeup." She shook her head. "Girls that age-one minute so sophisticated, they could be Parisian courtesans, and the next they paint their tongues green with food coloring and have hysterical fits of laughter. He said he'd fight to impose a dress code, and a makeup ban, segregated cla.s.ses for the boys and girls, I don't even know what all. I was so angry, I stopped hearing him. He fought tooth and nail to keep s.e.x-education cla.s.ses out, drug-education cla.s.ses, anything he didn't approve of. He came in with a list of books that he wanted banned, and he forced us to stop an afterschool club that met and played Dungeons and Dragons. There was always something new, something else evil, satanic, corrupting that I manage to sneak in. He said I have a past, and once the district knew about it, I'd be out of education altogether, that a divorcee should never have been hired in the first place. He was raving, a madman."

Frank had been listening intently; he saw when her hands began to shake, and saw the anger that flared as she talked about the PTA meeting. When she fell silent, he said, "Now I think we'll have coffee. Or do you want a drink?"

"Coffee," she said, leaning back. "Sorry. I got carried away all over again."

A few minutes later, after Patsy had brought in coffee, Frank asked, "Did he actually accuse you of anything?"

She shook her head. "He didn't know anything. He just said I have a past. Earlier, back in the office, he said he would have me investigated, and that's what he referred to, I guess." She looked at the cup she was holding.

"Hilde, if anyone actually investigates, will he find something?"

She put her cup down, leaned back again, and closed her eyes. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "He might. I have a friend, a male friend. He's married. Highly respected. His wife is incurably ill, schizophrenia. Now and then she has episodes that put her in a hospital, sometimes for months, and then she returns home. She also has a heart condition, and no one believes she will live more than a couple of years. He can't divorce a desperately ill woman. We see each other when we can, and when she dies...." She opened her eyes. She had spoken in a monotone, as if she feared that any emotion that crept into her voice might cause it to fail altogether.

She picked up her cup, then set it down again.

"I'm going to ask you some pretty blunt questions, Hilde. How discreet have you been? Is there an easy trail? Neighbors? Friends? Telephone calls to trace, that sort of thing?"

It could be worse, Frank thought, but not a lot worse. They had been careful, but there really was always a trail if one was willing to pay enough to find it. Finally he said, "Okay. You have to call your friend and tell him the situation you're in. After that one call, no more contact for the next month or two. No phone calls, no meetings. If you have letters, burn them, same for any gifts that could be traced from him to you, get rid of them. a.s.sume that you're being watched, investigated."

She had grown paler with his words. She ducked her head and began to turn her coffee cup around and around on the saucer.

"What is it?" Frank asked.

"I was going to be with him in San Francisco, the last week in June."

"I'm sorry, Hilde. I'm truly sorry, but that's exactly the kind of thing you can't afford right now. If an investigator puts in a lot of hours without finding anything current, I suspect he'll go elsewhere. Don't load his gun for him, Hilde."

After a moment she nodded.

"Now I'll go get us some fresh coffee, and you can use my phone. Call him from here. I'll wait for the coffee to drip; it will take a few minutes. Then we'll talk about opportunity."

He did not make the coffee, nor did he carry it back; Patsy would have been mortified. Five minutes later he returned to his office; Patsy brought in fresh coffee and left.

Pouring, he said, "Okay, next installment. Opportunity."

"They came around to ask why I was on Old Opal Creek Road that evening," she said. "I guess Mike Bakken saw me go by. I delivered books from the library to Graham Minick and Alex Feldman. Alex has a deformity and he won't go to the library, and usually Cloris Buchanan takes their books out, but she was leaving town to attend her brother's wedding, and I said I could drop them off. I chatted with Graham for a few minutes, then went on to school. But they acted as if... I don't know. They were suspicious and didn't seem to believe that anyone would go out of her way to deliver or pick up library books. Cloris works at the library, and she lives out past Opal Creek; she does it all the time, and I did it that one day."

"You left school to deliver the books?" Frank asked. Of course, he was thinking, the cops would find that suspicious.

"No, not like that," Hilde said. "The fact is that I have diabetes, and stress is hard on me. I don't deny that I've had a lot of stress recently, and that day, with the graduation ceremony, teachers afraid that Gus would create another scene with a bigger audience, I was pretty strung out. Leona said Gus would eat and then walk over for the graduation ceremony, and some of the girls were painted pretty heavily. There was a rumor that some of the boys would act up, boy-locker-room humor, no doubt. I had to get out of there for a while. I went home, took my medicine, ate, and lay down for an hour, and on the way back I stopped by Dr. Minick's house."

She put her cup down; she had not really wanted anything, coffeed out, she had said, but she needed something to do with her hands. "Frank, don't look at me like that. It's not a tragedy. Diabetes could take ten or fifteen years off your life, but maybe not, if you're careful. It's unpredictable that way. Like wine, a little with meals is okay, but that's all. Not really a hardship. You just learn to live with it, the way people with pacemakers learn to avoid microwave ovens. I watch my diet, try to avoid getting stressed out, get plenty of rest; I'm careful about medication, and I'm fine. But that's why I want an early retirement, while I am still fine."

She drew in a breath, then said, "The police don't know yet about the PTA meeting, what all Gus said, but they will, and they'll be back. What should I do?"

No need for her to add that she was terrified, it was written large and clear on her face and in her restless hands. "First thing," Frank said, "is to stay calm. Tell them about Rachel and Leona, the s.e.x education book, and why you gave it to Leona. After that, nothing. You don't know what Gus was talking about at the PTA meeting. You don't, Hilde. You really don't. He made so many accusations and threats over the years that you stopped paying attention. When he mentioned segregated cla.s.ses that night, you stopped listening. Can you do that?"

She nodded. "I really didn't listen to his actual words. He sounded crazy, a madman raving."

"Tell them that and no more."

"Others will tell them what he said."

"You can't stop them, and it doesn't matter. You dismissed him as a raving lunatic. Just listen carefully to their questions and answer those that apply to Gus, Rachel, Leona, all that business. If they get personal, clam up. Tell them you want to consult your attorney and give me a call and don't say another word. Okay?"

He waited for her nod, then said, "Hilde, I think you're worried unnecessarily. You had a divorce in your past, but it was amicable on both sides, and if Gus wanted to make a big deal of it, that was his problem." He saw the tension behind her eyes soften a bit as she grasped at the straw he offered. Then he said, "What I said before, about phone calls, visits, trips, it still goes, double in spades until the police arrest someone."

"I called him," she said in a low voice. "He said I should talk to you, follow your advice. We both understand."

"Good. Now, no matter what happens from here on out, we'll take care of you. Try to relax, get some rest."

She left then, and he thought about the murder, cursing under his breath. He had not yet asked for the name of her friend, but if the police came after her seriously, he would have to know and talk to the man before the police found him. They would want to know where he had been on Friday evening. If only she hadn't chosen that particular evening to play Good Samaritan and deliver books to Graham Minick's house.

He considered giving Barbara a call, but decided not yet. Hilde wasn't in any immediate danger; there would be time to bring in the troops. But he did want to talk to Bailey Novell, the only private detective he trusted. He wanted to know specific details about the murder and about Leona Marchand's accident. And Bailey could find out for him. He dialed.

5.

After seeing Dr. Minick off, Barbara told Maria to go home.

"Are you going to work late?" Maria asked. "Remember to stop and eat."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I don't need a keeper! Is Sh.e.l.ley still around?"

"Yes, in her office." Maria covered her computer, glanced around the neat little reception room, and left.

Barbara tapped on Sh.e.l.ley's door, then opened it a crack when Sh.e.l.ley said, "Come in."

Sh.e.l.ley was on the phone. She grimaced, and it was more like a quirky grin than anything else. Frank called her the pink and gold fairy princess, and that was exactly right; she had enough golden hair for two people, the complexion of a milkmaid, and big blue eyes. She looked like almost anything other than the crackerjack attorney she was fast becoming.

Barbara mouthed at her, "Drop in before you leave." She returned to her own office and picked up the briefcase Dr. Minick had left with her.

She was grinning over a political cartoon when Sh.e.l.ley joined her a few minutes later.

"You real busy these days?" Barbara asked.

Sh.e.l.ley sprawled on the sofa. "Not terribly. It's still petty stuff they're bringing me. As you know very well," she added. "What's up?"

"We may be heading for a murder case, the Marchand murder. I have three pending cases: one will go to trial this week, one's a plea bargain, and I hope to get the other one dismissed. So, all in all, I'll be pretty busy; I may have to ask you to sub for me at Martin's."

"Sure," Sh.e.l.ley said. "What about the murder case?"

Barbara told her a short version. "I'll go meet the client in the morning, and after that either we're in or not. If yes, there's something I'd like you to do for me in the next day or so. It's right up your alley-land-use laws."

Sh.e.l.ley groaned, and Barbara said sympathetically, "I know. But I want to know if Marchand's threat was real. If there's no way he could have gotten zoned for a housing tract, his threat was empty and there's no motive."

"There's no motive anyway," Sh.e.l.ley said. "So they might have to move. Big deal."