Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 5

She snorted. "Fat chance. And I wouldn't give him an inch, either." She reached for another nacho.

He caught her hand. "Don't fill up on that. Let's go have some real dinner."

"I can't. But thanks. Too much piling up on me, I'm afraid."

"Okay. I'll accept a rain check." He let go of her hand, and she picked up another nacho. "Let me tell you a little about me," he said. "I have a son who's nineteen. Weird, isn't it, but there it is. I watched him through the years reading Xander, laughing, cutting out strips he thought applied to me, and sticking them on the fridge to be sure I got them, too. And I couldn't say a word. His mother and I divorced after fourteen years, just not right for us, too much monogamy, that sort of thing. No problem on either side, or with Travis. He's cool. Three years ago I got married again, and this time she had two kids going into the marriage. They hated me, and I can't say I was fond of them. She left after a year and is married now to a surfer down in California, and I bet her kids hate him, too. Anyway, there I was with my own son, and two more kids, and I bought a pretty big house, which I still have. It's for sale, no takers yet."

He was looking past her, a slight smile on his face. "I'd love it if Alex drew Xander in my house. Someday, maybe ten years or longer, but someday it won't be a secret anymore, and I'll rub Travis's nose in it." He laughed. "But even if that never happens, I would be tickled pink if he would use my place now."

"Where is Travis?"

"England, a year of study. Architecture. Christopher Wren is his hero."

"Where is your house?"

He told her the address on Fox Hollow Road, worked a key off a ring and handed it to her. "Go out and take a look. I have another key hidden out there."

They arranged the code they would use if Dr. Minick or Alex wanted to talk to her, or she to them; she finished off the nachos and her drink. "Now I've got to go," she said. "Work. This has been very helpful, Will. Thanks a lot."

"Nope," he said. "I should thank you. Do you know how exciting contract work is? Trust funds? Wills? Thank you, Barbara. Tonight I'll gloat that I'm Xander's secret helper." He laughed again, and they walked out to her car. At the door, he said, "Do you like jazz or blues?"

"Both. Very much. Why?"

"My rain check. Someplace with jazz. I'll give you a call."

Driving, she thought, this time she would not say no. If she hadn't been paying so much attention to his neck years before, she would have noticed how fine his dark eyes were. His Adam's apple was perfectly normal.

Barbara drove to her apartment, where she collected bedding and her toothbrush, then headed back to the office. If Bailey had someone watching already, they would know she planned to camp out, and they would know there was something she had to guard. "Cat and mouse," she muttered, carrying her things up the exposed staircase on the side of the building. They knew that she knew that they knew-an endless loop.

She sat at her computer to start researching Hilde Franz, whose life appeared to be an open book, an irreproachable life dedicated to education and public service. She had served on many do-good committees. An early divorce, nineteen years in the past, appeared to be the only possible point of contention.

She printed the page that listed the various committees on which Hilde Franz had served-Looking Gla.s.s, for troubled adolescents; a hospital committee; Women s.p.a.ce; Food for Lane County.... Her eyes narrowed then as she studied the list. A committee to fight censorship in the library. Hilde's connection with Cloris Buchanan, the librarian who delivered books to Alex? Perhaps, she decided.

She was still at the computer at nine-thirty when Sh.e.l.ley arrived, carrying a large manila envelope. "We did all the computer stuff," she said triumphantly. "Dr. Minick bought the neatest laptop I've even seen. He sent this stuff for you to put in the safe, and Alex and I installed his programs and the games and got them up and running. He put his initials on Dr. Minick's paintings-you know, the ones in the living room. There are others, too, all initialed AF now. Alex made dinner and I ate with them. He's a pretty good cook. Not like your dad or Martin, but good."

Barbara laughed and held up her hand. "Now, stop and breathe while I tell you what's up."

She told Sh.e.l.ley about her meeting with Will, the telephone signals, and his offer of his house. "We'll have to get Alex's computer over there and give him a call."

"I'll take care of it," Sh.e.l.ley said quickly.

"Okay. There's little more we can do at the moment."

"What will you be doing?"

"Two people I want to talk to," Barbara said. "Cloris Buchanan and Ruth Dufault. She's Leona Marchand's sister, the one who's staying with the kids. I want to get to them both before there's an arrest and they are instructed not to talk to anyone."

Late that night Barbara put away the Xander sc.r.a.pbook and then lay down on the sofa, thinking about the strip. It was funny and sad, poignant and slapstick; the boy Timmy was worldly and naive, a superhero and a b.u.mbler. He was Everyboy, she thought. He knew wrong when he encountered it, and he knew how to make it right, but as often as not he failed. And his endless, futile quest for the secret ingredient to make him powerful all the time... Inherently dark and sad, but Alex also made it funny.

She understood why the strip was a hit. Alex went straight to the heart of adolescence and exposed its vulnerability, its egocentricity and selflessness, its anguish and elation, its brilliant light and deepest shadows....

Usually Frank Holloway prepared for bed leisurely, checked doors, then stretched out with the two golden c.o.o.n cats at the foot of the bed; after a certain amount of shifting to get comfortable, all three promptly fell asleep. Probably set up quite a chorus, he thought; he knew the cats snored, and didn't doubt that he outsnored them both. That night sleep eluded him, and he gave it up and returned to the living room, where he sat brooding on his very nice leathercovered sofa, absently stroking it and Thing One alternately. Thing Two tried to crawl into his lap, and he shoved the monster off again. Too hot to hold two cats that weighed more than twenty pounds apiece.

Barbara was sleeping in her office, Bailey had reported earlier, a report that could have waited until the next day. Bailey was unhappy and showing his displeasure at the turn this case had taken, getting back in a childish way.

"Anything else?" Frank had snapped, and when Bailey said no, he had hung up on him. After mulling it over, arguing with himself, he had finally called Hilde, to warn her not to talk to Barbara.

He had heard the note of uncertainty-fear?-in Hilde's voice when she said, after a pause a second or two longer than was normal, "I thought you worked together, a team. She won't be with you on this matter?"

"Not this time. She's tied up with her own client."

"Oh, I see." Her tone indicated otherwise.

"I just wanted to warn you not to talk to her, or anyone else, for that matter."

The long pause again, then Hilde said, "Frank, is she working on this same case, but for someone else?" She did not wait for a response, but said, "That's it, isn't it? Why else would she want to ask me anything?"

Well, he thought, he had known Hilde was smart. Next she would press him to reveal Barbara's client, which he couldn't do. He forestalled her questions by saying, "I can't talk about it right now, Hilde. I'll give you a call in a day or two. Just sit tight and don't worry."

Now, sitting up long past his bedtime, he worried about the call, about Hilde. She would have gotten in touch with her friend, he reasoned, warned him not to talk to Barbara. And she had expected them both to represent her, not just him. He had said, "We'll take care of you." She would have taken that to mean him and Barbara, which was exactly what he had meant when he uttered the words.

Well, if she didn't like the arrangement, she could fire him and get someone else. That might be the very best thing that could happen, because if he stayed in, he intended to win.

Then he thought about Barbara sleeping in her office. Guarding something. Staying up all hours working. Probably skipped dinner... Tomorrow she would take something to the bank and stash it away in her safe-deposit box, out of Bailey's reach, out of Frank's reach. A smoking gun?

Maybe a smoking hammer. He drew up a mental picture of the kitchen Bailey had sketched for him. A big country kitchen with a dining table on one side fifteen feet from the stove; family meals, even company meals had been served at that table, Frank knew. Only Christmas, Easter, very special meals, would have been served in the dining room. Gus Marchand's body had been by the table. The real problem was not what happened inside the house, but rather access to the house in the first place, and there were too few people who could have come and gone in the short time available. Hilde could have had time, he had to admit.

Then he cursed. He had to know the name of her lover, and he had to know where he had been the evening Gus Marchand got his head bashed in. By now, that man knew that Barbara was working for someone else on this case. If he or Hilde had followed Barbara's cases at all over the past few years, they knew they had cause to worry.

It was a bad night. Twice Barbara came wide awake and got up to investigate strange noises. At six the cleaning crew arrived, and she felt as if she had been rubbing sand in her eyes all night. Also, she was ravenous.

At eight Maria and Sh.e.l.ley arrived at the same time, and to Barbara's surprise, Alan Macagno was trailing after them. Usually Alan looked like a paperboy tooling around on his bike, or a college student. That morning he looked a little embarra.s.sed, and very amused. He worked for Bailey, and the last time he had kept an eye on Barbara, it had been to safeguard her.

Before she could say a word, Sh.e.l.ley was babbling. "Now, Barbara, don't scold. I simply can't stand that Mac. I told you it was on trial only. It's so... so blue! It doesn't go with a thing I have. The salesman said try it, you'll like it, you'll never go back to a PC, And boy, was he ever wrong. He said give it a try for a few days and if it isn't right, bring it back. You know that little laptop I told you about? Four pounds, battery and all, and it has sixteen gigabytes of something or other. And eight hundred megahertz." She paused for breath and looked at Alan. "What's a megahert?"

"I think it has to do with speed," he said, not quite laughing.

"It's like lightning!" Sh.e.l.ley exclaimed. "Anyway, I spotted Alan having some juice across the street and I asked him if he'd carry it down for me. Wait till you see that Mac, Alan. It's the bluest thing except sky I ever laid my eyes on. I can't believe I let that salesman talk me into it. Blue!"

Minutes later, as Alan carried the computer down to her car, Sh.e.l.ley called back up the stairs, "I'll be at Martin's this afternoon. My turn."

Barbara retreated to her office, where she sat down laughing helplessly. Sh.e.l.ley was perfect. Valley girl all the way, big hair, pretty, fast talk, clothes. Pure rich-b.i.t.c.h Valley girl, when she chose to be. Take it back because it didn't match anything in her office!

At nine-thirty, showered, breakfasted, dressed in a skirt and blouse with sandals-she had drawn the line at hose-she went to her bank and put in her safe-deposit box all of Alex's files, his medical files, and the unexamined envelope that Sh.e.l.ley had brought back from Dr. Minick. Then she went to the public library, where Cloris Buchanan was a reference librarian. She went straight to her desk; Cloris Buchanan was on the telephone. In her thirties, with black hair tied up in a ribbon, half-gla.s.ses, little makeup, although she had started out with lipstick-traces were still visible-she looked like the cla.s.sic librarian until one noticed her ears, four pierces in one, two in the other. Gold studs gleamed in them all.

Barbara stopped short of her desk until she finished her conversation, then she moved closer. "Ms. Buchanan? I'm Barbara Holloway, an attorney here in town. Would it be possible for me to pick your brain about censorship, banned books, things of that sort?"

"Why? For what purpose?" Cloris Buchanan asked.

"I need some background information in order to represent a client, and I remembered reading that you chair a committee fighting censorship. So, here I am." She handed Cloris a card and watched her glance at it.

The telephone rang and Cloris picked it up and said, "Can you hold a second? Thanks."

"Not here," Barbara said. "I don't want to interrupt your work. Can I buy you some lunch? Ashby's. It's nearby."

It was a block away-small, quiet, and very pricey. Cloris seemed to know that, too. She nodded. "I don't get off until one-thirty. I work late tonight, so I take a late lunch break."

"That's fine," Barbara said. "I'll make a reservation. See you then." As she turned to leave, Cloris began to speak into the phone.

Walking out, Barbara thought that although Cloris Buchanan didn't have a clue about her at the moment, by the time they met for lunch, the librarian would have plied her trade.

In her car, using her cell phone, she made the reservation and then started the half-hour drive to Opal Creek. She didn't try to spot a tail, and didn't doubt that there was one.

Driving, she considered Daniel. Too little time, if his friends kept to their story that he was gone five minutes or less. Hardly enough time to run home, get his money, help his mother carry something to her car, and then get into a head-bashing fight with his father. Unless he and Leona had been in on it together. And that seemed even less likely. She had been more rushed than Daniel. Getting dinner ready, bathing, dressing, all in less than an hour. It didn't leave much time for a fight to develop to the point of murder.

She shook her head. Let Frank worry about Daniel and Leona, she decided, and began to think of Ruth Dufault, Leona's sister. She and her husband had a furniture store in Roseburg, an hour out of Eugene. She had never lived in Opal Creek and wouldn't be likely to know anyone there, or at least not more than as an acquaintance. Maybe she would want to talk to someone not in the family, not grief-stricken.

The property looked different, she thought when she pulled into the driveway of the Marchand house. It was as obsessively neat as it had been before, but the feeling persisted that something had changed. Or was that what a death did? Strike and leave an uneasy feeling behind, something that hovered unseen and inescapable.

When she rang the bell at the front door, it was opened promptly by a middle-aged woman whose face was puffy from weeping, her eyes bloodshot.

"Mrs. Dufault? My name is Barbara Holloway. I just wanted to stop by and tell you how very sorry I am about your sister and her husband. Dr. Minick said you're a stranger here, and I thought you might need something."

Ruth Dufault opened the door wider. "Dr. Minick? He's a kind man. He came by offering to help. Please, come in."

What Ruth Dufault needed was to talk to a sympathetic listener. They talked in the living room, then out in the kitchen, where Ruth made coffee. "You can see the place where they put the skillet down," she said. "It burned the porch. I can't bear to look at it."

Barbara looked at the perfect black disk. Murder left its mark, she thought distantly. Everything else was scrupulously neat and clean, inside and out. White woodwork inside gleamed, the polished floors gleamed, the curtains at the kitchen windows were white enough to be dazzling. She turned her attention back to Ruth, who was talking nonstop.

Rachel was at a friend's house, she said. Her girlfriend's mother had come and picked her up, to get her mind off the tragedy. And Daniel was out with Mike Bakken, talking to him about the orchard. Neighbors had offered to help with the harvest, and Daniel said he had to stay that long. They would need the money, but after the harvest they would sell the place.

"I don't know what to do," Ruth said, taking cups from a cabinet. "I thought they would go home with me, but Daniel has to stay for the harvest, and then he'll be at OSU, and Rachel just cries and cries and doesn't know what she wants to do. One minute she says she'll go with me, and the next she's crying or, even worse, just staring at nothing." She poured coffee and brought the cups to the table.

"She was like that the night Leona died, just staring, dead white, in shock, I guess. Daniel was crying, he ran off to his room, crying, but she didn't say a word, didn't cry, nothing, not until I got some milk out for her, to take with a tranquilizer, you see. Then she broke down and ran to the bathroom over there and cried. But she does that now, stares and stares."

She began talking about Leona and Gus. "She was such a pretty girl, just like Rachel. And so fun-loving, full of laughter all the time. My little sister. She was only twelve when I got married, and that's all she talked about afterward, how she wanted to get married and have children. I had my first a year after I got married, then two more. She wanted a baby more than anything. And Gus came along when she was seventeen. We tried to talk her out of marrying so young, but she knew what she wanted. And Gus seemed to be crazy about her those days. She was eighteen when they got married. She was such a beautiful bride. I don't know what happened. I just can't understand what happened to them. One time she said that he believed that women who enjoyed s.e.x were depraved, that it wasn't natural, that was why she had such a hard time with pregnancies. She never talked about it again, and if I said something like that, she denied ever thinking such a thing. I used to think it was because of her trouble, you know, miscarriages. She had four, poor thing. It was hard to watch her trying to cope, and later it was like something in her curled up and died. But she blamed herself, never Gus. She said he was the best, most honorable man she had ever met, without any vices, never cruel to her. Oh, he switched the kids now and then, but that's all. You know how some people are clock-bound? Everything on time, everything in its place, no disorder anywhere. He was like that. No TV, except what he said was all right, and if it was over by ten. Because it was bed by ten, up at six, breakfast at six-thirty, dinner at six every day. Routine. He had to have his routine, I guess. It would have driven me crazy, but Leona said it was for the best, or life would get too chaotic. She said she owed him everything, that he had given her two beautiful children, and she was grateful. But she became a different person when he was around."

She gazed out the window at the neat lawn, then said, "Gus never had any joy in him. He was a G.o.d-fearing man who worked hard and did well, and he got a lot of satisfaction out of that, but never any joy. I don't think he knew what joy meant."

8.

"Every year," Cloris Buchanan said, "we put up displays of the banned books, one for the children, one for adults. We feature the books that people are trying to keep out of the hands of the reading public. Kids who never cracked a book before now read Harry Potter. They're on the list. Witchcraft, spells, demons...."

They were making inroads on great Greek salads that were beautiful and luscious-and should be at eighteen dollars a pop, Barbara thought. She let Cloris go on vehemently for a time, then said, "How does your committee work? Monthly meetings?"

"No. We did for a time, but it was hard to get us all together at once. Those people are so busy. The ones who volunteer for committee work are overworked, you see. They feel compelled to volunteer for this and that, and pretty soon they start missing meetings. Now we meet quarterly, unless there's a ha.s.sle in progress."

Barbara brought out her list of committee members. "I probably should talk to a couple of these people. Rudy Conroy! He must be eighty years old. Surely he isn't still doing battle!"

"But he is. He's a regular. He was at our meeting in April."

"Hilde Franz," Barbara murmured. "Familiar name. Oh, wasn't there a problem in a school where she was teaching? A few years ago, I guess."

"She's the princ.i.p.al," Cloris said. "Opal Creek Middle School. They've been fighting censorship for ages."

"Opal Creek! That's where that murder was last week!"

After that she simply ate her salad and listened. Cloris knew all about the many battles Hilde had had with Gus Marchand, whose death had not come a minute too soon, she added. Not that she condoned murder, but... She told about meeting Dr. Minick, becoming friends.

"There he was, standing at the door with freezing rain pelting down, and I said, Why not call in or email me a list of books, and I'd be happy to pick them up and drop them off. I live just a couple of miles past Opal Creek, you see. It really wasn't any trouble for me. And after I met Alex, I could really understand why he wouldn't come in person. That poor guy. Anyway, that's what I did. And last week Hilde was in and said she hadn't seen them for a long time, and to say h.e.l.lo for her. I told her about my brother's wedding, and how I wouldn't make it out that week, and she offered to drop off the books. That's how she is. Always willing to help out."

"Maybe I should talk to her," Barbara said. "She certainly would know what a teacher is facing if she has a problem parent."

"I don't know," Cloris said doubtfully. "I think she's pretty busy. Like I said, she's on other committees, too, and I think they're more active than ours." She leaned in closer and said in a very low voice, "And I think she has a friend. You know? A boyfriend? I hope so, anyway."

Barbara laughed. "I think women can always tell. Don't you? Maybe the aura changes, or something."

Looking pleased, Cloris nodded. "You can tell. I guess we're trained all our lives to read signs that guys don't even see. In April she was in and apologized for not making our meeting, she said a hospital committee had met that same night, and I thought then, Aha, maybe she's snagged a doctor! She was giving off rays or something, I guess." Then she said, "Let me see that list. I can tell you who would be good to talk to."

They chatted; Cloris marked a few names on the list, and then it was time for her to go back to work. After they parted on the sidewalk, Barbara decided that her money had been well spent.

Driving back to the office, she planned the rest of her day. Look up the members of the hospital committee. She knew pretty well what to expect there: a lot of fat cats, big names, important people, respectable people. And just possibly one who was having an affair with a school princ.i.p.al. Then, a very long walk. Miles and miles. Sleeping on the couch had destroyed her back.

When she entered her office, she could hear Sh.e.l.ley speaking. "I don't think it goes there. Let's try this one."

Maria raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes, and Barbara went to Sh.e.l.ley's open door to see what was happening. Sh.e.l.ley and Alan Macagno were surrounded by boxes and computer cables.

"Hi," Sh.e.l.ley said. "Wait till you see it run! Like lightning! Alan, I said not that socket, or whatever it's called. Look at the diagram!" She glanced at Barbara and said very innocently, "I told him he could come and see it for himself, but my printer doesn't seem to want to cooperate."

Barbara nodded and withdrew, thinking, of course, her own desktop computer might be examined by someone like Alan, or more likely Bailey. He seldom told his minions to do anything really illegal; he did those ch.o.r.es himself. She would use her laptop from here on out and keep it with her.

She was busy making notes when Sh.e.l.ley tapped on her door later, then entered carrying two coffee mugs. "I thought you might be ready for a break," she said. "I know I am."

Alex and Dr. Minick liked the house, she said. The blue computer was there, set up. "It's a beautiful house. Five bedrooms! Huge. And he likes abstract art; it's everywhere. I don't think he really wants to sell, though. Two seventy-five. Pretty steep. And I have a domestic case, grandson hit his grandmother, and she doesn't want to call the police but wants him to keep out. I tried to talk her into pressing charges. By tomorrow she'll be giving him money again. Why do they put up with that?"

Barbara knew it wasn't really a question and didn't bother to answer. She told Sh.e.l.ley about her day. "So it looks like Hilde has a boyfriend, and he just might be too respectable to be caught having an affair. I'm not going to do any more with that for now. Time enough if Alex is charged. Then we'll have to get a private detective of our own. That's going to be stealth work. I don't think I can breeze in and start asking questions with the men on the hospital committee." She drank her coffee appreciatively. Maria had made it. "And that's about all we can do for the time being. I'll finish my notes and you can read them tomorrow, and then it's a waiting game. I'll be in court most of the day tomorrow."

When Sh.e.l.ley stood up to go home, she said, "Oh, I almost forgot. When Alan came in with me, he asked Maria, How's it going? And she said it was a nice sunny day, but she thought rain might move in by the weekend."

Barbara didn't leave the office until after six. It occurred to her that she couldn't take her walk unless she carried the laptop with her. Frank had a key to her apartment, just as she had a key to his house.

"He wouldn't give Bailey the key," she muttered under her breath, then cursed. "Oh, wouldn't he?" She decided to swim laps at the apartment complex instead of walking.