Charlaine Harris (102 page)

Expired. “And what did you do after that?”

He sighed, as if the complexity of relaying his story was too much for him to bear. “I told the man that we had to call into town. We had to report the death. We had quite an argument. He didn't seem to understand that it was the law, that the law had to be followed.”

Since you'd already bent it so far out of shape,
I thought. “But he let you call, finally?”

“He agreed, as long as I didn't mention the baby. So the funeral home came to get the poor young woman, and I signed the death certificate.” His shoulders slumped. He'd finally told the worst thing, in his view, and now he could relax.

“You said she'd died of . . . ?”

“Massive infection due to a ruptured appendix.”

“And no one questioned that?”

He shrugged. “No family came forward. The Joyces sent me a check to pay my bill—no more—and after that, if anyone who worked for them got sick, they came to me for treatment.”

It had been very clever of them not to offer Dr. Bowden an outright bribe. I was sure the bill he'd sent had been stiff, and they'd paid it just as they would have under normal circumstances. That had reassured the doctor. And since his practice wasn't flourishing, they'd thrown him a big bone.

“With a setup like that, why'd you move to Dallas?” Manfred asked. Again, I wouldn't have gotten into that, but again, I'd underestimated the doctor's elasticity.

“It was my wife. She couldn't stand Clear Creek,” he said. “And I've got to say, no one there got along with her, either. We were having some real wars at home. About six years ago, I got to talking to a doctor I'd never met before at an AMA meeting. He had a practice in Dallas. He told me his office was coming empty, did I want to take over the lease. It was at the previous price, much lower than new tenants were paying. And he'd throw in the equipment, too, because he was going overseas to a new job at an American consulate in Turkey or somewhere like that.”

Could he really not see how set up that had been? It was like someone attaching a string to a dollar bill and then setting it out on the sidewalk, so he could drag it away and get a passerby to follow the path of the money.

“Jeez Louise,” said Manfred. He almost continued, but fortunately he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Thanks,” I said, after I'd tried to think of more questions to ask. “Oh, did someone else come here this morning, asking about Mariah Parish?”

“Ah . . . yes, as a matter of fact.”

Why the hell hadn't I thought to bring pictures of the Joyces with me? I'd done well so far, for someone who didn't know squat about being a detective, but this was a huge mistake I'd made.

“Who was he?”

“Said his name was Ted Bowman.”

Oh, not that that was anything like Tom Bowden, oh, no.

“And he wanted . . .”

Tom Bowden looked troubled, or rather, more troubled. “He wanted to know the same things you two wanted to know, but not for the same reason.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It was like he already knew the whole story. He just wanted to know how much
I
knew about who was involved.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I had no idea who the man who brought me to the house was, that as far as I could tell, the last time I saw the baby she was fine, and that I'd never talked to anyone else about that night.”

“And he said?”

“He said that was good news; he'd heard the baby had died and he was glad to know that she had survived. He said I better forget about that night, and I told him I hadn't thought about it in years. He warned me that someone else might come asking questions, and he told me whoever came would be someone who was just trying to create trouble by saying Mariah Parish was still alive.”

“What did he tell you to do about that?”

“He told me it would be in my best interest to keep my mouth shut.”

“But you talked to us anyway.”

For the first time, Tom Bowden met my eyes. “I'm tired of keeping the secret,” he said, and I believed him. “I got divorced from my wife anyway. My practice isn't doing too well, and my whole life hasn't turned out like I thought it would. I date this downward slide from that night.”

He'd told the truth that time, I was sure. “And what did this man look like?” I asked.

“He was taller than your friend here”—Dr. Bowden nodded condescendingly toward Manfred—“and a good bit stockier, big muscles and chest. Dark hair, in his forties or fifties. Graying a little.”

“Visible tattoos?”

“No, he was wearing a rain jacket,” Dr. Bowden said, in the tone of one pointing out the obvious. His attitude was creeping back. Evidently, crying time was over. I tried to think of more questions to ask him before the well dried up. “You really don't know the name of the man who took you out to the ranch house?” I found that hard to believe, in a little town like Clear Creek. I said so.

He shrugged. “I hadn't been in town that long, and the ranch people keep to themselves. This man said he worked for Mr. Joyce, and he was driving a ranch truck. He may have given me a name, but I don't remember it. It was a stressful evening. Like I said, I suspected he might be Drexell Joyce. But I'd never met Drexell, so I don't know.”

I'll bet it had been a stressful evening. Especially for Mariah Parish, whose life might have been saved if the ambulance had come for her . . . if anyone had been humane enough to call one.

I was a little surprised that she hadn't been outright murdered, and the baby along with her. At that time Rich Joyce had still been alive, and maybe the fear of what he'd say and do if his caregiver disappeared in his absence had been the deciding factor. He'd miss Mariah, even if no one else would. And Rich Joyce wouldn't let go if he decided something strange was up.

Maybe the child had been stowed in someone's home as a bargaining chip of some kind. Maybe one of the ranch hands was raising her. I could make up all kinds of stories in my head, but none of them was more likely than another.

“Where was Rich Joyce that evening?” Manfred asked.

“The man just said he was gone,” Bowden said. “His truck wasn't there.”

“He didn't know his caregiver was pregnant? He didn't notice?”

Bowden shrugged. “That never came up. I don't know what she told Mr. Joyce. Some women just don't show that much, and if she was trying to hide it . . .”

Manfred and I looked at each other. We didn't have any other questions.

“Goodbye, Dr. Bowden,” I said, standing. He couldn't hide his relief that we were leaving.

“Are you going to the police?” he asked. “You know, even if they exhume poor Ms. Parish, they won't be able to tell a thing.” He was regretting having talked to us. But he was also relieved. This guy had had a hard time for the past eight years, living inside his own skin. I, for one, was glad of that.

“I don't know,” Manfred said, very thoughtfully. He'd had the same reaction. “We're considering it. If the child came to no harm, it's possible you may keep your license.”

A horrified Dr. Bowden was staring at us as we went down the hall and out through the waiting room. There were three more patients there, and I felt sorry for them. I wondered what kind of care the doctor would give now that he was definitely on the upset side. He'd had two visits in one day about an event he must have hoped was buried forever; that would be enough to rattle any man, even one made of better stuff than Tom Bowden.

“That guy is a human sewer,” Manfred said when we were in the elevator. He was very angry, his face red with strong emotion.

“I don't know if he's quite that bad,” I said, feeling at least ten years older than my companion. “But he's weak. And he's a joke, based on the standards a doctor ought to uphold.”

“I wouldn't be so surprised if it was the 1930s,” Manfred said, surprising me. “That sounds like a story you'd read in a collection of old ghost stories. The knock on the door in the middle of the night, the stranger who comes to take you to a mysterious patient in a big house, the dying woman, the baby, the secrecy . . .”

I was goggling at Manfred when the doors opened on the ground floor. That had been exactly what I'd been thinking. “Do you believe what he told us was the truth? If we both think he was telling us a story that sounds incredible, maybe it is. Maybe it was a pack of lies.”

“I don't think he's a good enough liar,” Manfred said. “Though some of what he told us was lies, of course. How has he made it this far? Didn't he know that someday, someone would come asking questions? He has to be at least a little smart because he's a doctor, right? Not everybody can make it through med school. And his license was there on the wall, I read it. I'm going to check up on it. Maybe we need another private eye.”

“No, not considering what happened to the last one,” I snapped, and then felt contrite. “I'm sorry, Manfred. I'm glad you went with me. It's good there was another set of ears listening and another pair of eyes seeing. Did you believe the main outline of his story? You're the psychic.”

“I did believe him,” Manfred said after a perceptible pause. “I went back over it in my head, and I think he was telling us the truth. Not all the truth; he did know who the man who came to get him was, for example. And I don't think the man hid his phone; I think he told the doctor he absolutely couldn't make a phone call, and I think he told him that in a threatening way. A really good threat would be enough to flatten a guy like Dr. Bowden. I also think the guy had warned the doctor what to expect at the house. Doctors don't go out now with big bags, like my grandmother said they did when she was little. I think Dr. Bowden knew to take medication for a woman who'd just had a difficult birth, and something for the baby, too.”

That made a lot of sense. “You're right. So who do you think came into town to get the doctor? Who made that mysterious drive out to the empty big house? Who took the baby? Whoever took Dr. Bowden to the ranch, he was wearing a wedding ring.”

“Oh, that's right. Good for you for remembering. Well, we know that Drexell was married for a while, and we know that Chip was, too. Could have been either one, or even someone we haven't met yet.”

We drove back to the hotel, stopping along the way to eat a fast-food lunch. I got a grilled chicken sandwich and didn't eat the fries. I was trying to eat better; I'd feel better if I did. We didn't talk much over the food. I don't know what Manfred was thinking, but I was trying to trace the niggling feeling I'd had when I'd first seen the Joyce party get out of their trucks at the Pioneer Rest Cemetery. I'd thought I'd seen them before, at least the men. Where would I have seen them? Could they have come by the trailer when we were all living there? There had been so many people in and out . . . and I'd tried so hard to dodge them.

I had to put that idea on the back burner when we returned to the hotel to find Tolliver in a real (and rare) snit. He'd tried to take a shower, and during the course of covering his shoulder with a plastic bag, he'd banged it against the wall, and it had hurt, and he was angry because I was gone so long with Manfred. He'd ordered lunch from room service, and then he'd had a hard time managing taking the cover off the drink and unrolling his silverware, with one good hand. Tolliver clearly had a grievance, and though I was prepared to coddle him until he was in a better frame of mind, I got into my own snit when he told me that Matthew had called to check on him, and when he heard Tolliver's tale, Matthew had said he was coming to visit since I'd left Tolliver all by himself.

I was mad at Tolliver, and he was mad at me—though I knew this was all because I'd gone on an errand with someone besides him. Normally, Tolliver is not temperamental, and not irritable, and not unreasonable. Today, he was all those things.

“Oh, Tolliver,” I said, my own voice none too loving. “Couldn't you just suck it up until I got back?”

He glared at me, but I could tell he was already sorry he'd said anything to his dad. It was too late, though. Apparently, McDonald's was being amazingly forgiving in its work schedule, because in just a few moments Matthew was knocking on the door.

When Matthew came into the living room and walked over to his son while I was still holding the door open, my eyes followed him, and I froze with my hand still on the door. Matthew was the man I'd seen leaving Dr. Bowden's office that morning. He'd been going out the doors across the lobby as we'd been entering. Same clothes, same walk, same set of the shoulders.

Manfred's eyes followed mine, and his widened. He asked me a silent question. After a moment, I shook my head. There was no point in having a confrontation—at least, my scrambled head couldn't instantly see any advantage.

If Matthew admitted he'd been there, he'd simply tell us that he was visiting another doctor, or a lawyer, or an accountant, in the same building, for whatever reason. It would be hard to disprove. But his presence in Tom Bowden's building was more coincidence than I could bite off and chew.

It had never occurred to me that Matthew's reappearance in his children's lives had anything to do with the Joyces.

Instead of joining the three men, I went into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed. I felt as if someone had just slammed a car door on my legs, when I was only half in. I tried hard to focus on one idea out of the dozens that were suddenly percolating in my head. My whole world had shifted, and regaining my balance in that world was almost impossible.