Defense for the Devil (6 page)

“Hats off,” Frank said quietly. “You did it and you did it alone.”

“Not altogether,” she said. “The second year I was about to go under, and Papa Arno came to my rescue and loaned me money. If it hadn’t been for his and Mama Arno’s trust and faith, and Mr. and Mrs. Thielman’s belief that I could do it, it wouldn’t have worked.”

There was a loud snapping from the other side of the room. They all watched as Bailey pushed the suitcase aside and pulled the briefcase around.

A little later Frank and Maggie were discussing whether commercial art, illustrations, could be considered real art. Laurence hated doing commercial art, she said, although he was very good at it, but he refused to do more than enough to scrape by. Evidently that was a sore point in their relationship.

Just then there was another snapping noise and Bailey said, “Done.”

They hurried across the room to the desk.

“They’re unlocked,” Bailey said. “Tape’s still in place. Whose move?”

“I’ll do it,” Barbara said. No one stirred or spoke as she peeled the tape off the suitcase, then lifted the lid. Maggie gasped. Barbara let out a long low whistle. Money, stacks of money bundled in neat rows.

“Don’t touch,” Bailey said. He got a pair of latex gloves from his kit and pulled them on, then he lifted out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and riffled through it, replaced it, and pulled out a second one. “Ten thousand in the bundles.” He counted. “Two hundred fifty thousand, looks like, except one’s been tapped.” He counted that one. “Ten grand missing. Two hundred forty thousand bucks. Used bills. Not in sequence. If they’re marked, it’s going to take a real examination to
see
how.”

Silently, leaving the suitcase open, Barbara peeled off the tape on the briefcase and opened it. Papers. A thick stack of papers. Bailey, still wearing the gloves, lifted the stack out and set it on the table. Computer printouts, hundreds, perhaps thousands of sheets of flimsy fanfold printouts in computerese, totally meaningless to Barbara. The print was so small, it appeared almost illegible.

Bailey examined the briefcase; nothing else was in it. After a quick look at Barbara, then Frank, who both nodded, he returned the stack of printouts to the briefcase; Barbara closed it. Then, more slowly, she closed the suitcase.

Bailey left soon after that, saying he’d be in touch.

Maggie sat on the couch with a dazed expression. “Where did that money come from?”

Barbara shrugged. She was thinking it was no wonder that Trassi had shown no surprise at the figure she had arrived at for child-support arrears.

“What we should do,” she said, thinking out loud, “is keep all that in the office safe until we know where it came from, whose money it was, and why Mitch had it. And he’s the one who can tell us those things.” She looked steadily at Maggie. “He’ll have to get in touch with you. He doesn’t know about me. Don’t stay at the inn at night for the time being; stay down at the hotel, with a lot of people around you. If he calls, give him my name and number, and if he shows up, the same. Tell him you’ll meet him here, but don’t talk to him alone anywhere.” Maggie was wide-eyed and pale. She moistened her lips.

“If he tries to get rough,” Barbara said matter-of-factly, “scream, yell, make noise to get others to gather around. Just don’t go off alone with him for even a minute.” She waited for Maggie’s nod. “Okay, then. We’ll put everything back in the safe. Bailey’s running down what he can, and until we get some answers, or
see
Mitch himself, there’s nothing else we can do except sit tight and wait. And don’t talk to anyone, not a word. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Maggie said.

Then Frank said, “Maggie, you can’t drive home alone, not at this hour. I have three upstairs rooms going to waste, without a living soul in them, unless it’s a cat. Cats in my house are bootable. Stay over and drive back in daylight.”

“He’s right,” Barbara said. “You shouldn’t be out alone at night, not until we know more than we do now. I left gowns and things in the closet and drawers. Please help yourself.”

Maggie hesitated only briefly, then said thanks, she would be glad not to drive out now. After putting everything back in the safe, they left; Maggie followed Frank home, and Barbara hurried to her own apartment.

In his house, after showing Maggie the upstairs rooms, turning on lights for her, Frank went to his own bedroom and eyed the coon cats at the foot of his bed, well aware that they had not forgiven him.

He admired Maggie quite a lot, he reflected. Courage, good sense, determination, all admirable qualities that she had in abundance. He understood her need to throw a big party, to demonstrate to everyone that she had done it. He had great sympathy for young women like her, working so hard to prove their worth to a world that was either disbelieving or indifferent, or both. Even when they succeeded, the world tended to say, So what, can you cook?

He realized he had switched tracks and was considering his own daughter, who was also struggling to prove something. Of the two, Maggie and Barbara, Barbara’s self-appointed task was the harder. She had a tougher critic: herself.

“Okay, you monsters,” he growled then. “Move over.” Usually when he turned down the bed, the cats moved, took up their positions like two warm guardians, one on each side. Tonight they looked at him with golden eyes and did not move. When he took them in to have them neutered, they had not forgiven him for a week. He wondered which they considered worse, having a bath or having their balls cut off. He squirmed into bed and pushed one with his foot until he had room enough, and although usually he promptly fell asleep, that night he lay thinking about the suitcase and briefcase, thinking about Mitch Arno. Why hadn’t Mitch Arno called or come back?

He didn’t like the answer he was getting.

6

“Hot,” Barbara murmured
when she and John returned home from a hike up Spencer’s Butte on Saturday. John fiddled with the air conditioner, and she hit the MESSAGE button on the phone, then began to unlace her boots. She stopped moving when Maggie’s voice came on.

“Barbara, it’s Maggie. Are you there? Please pick up!” she sounded panic-stricken. “Please. Okay. I’m coming to town and I’ll go straight to Martin’s. Please, if you get this, be there. I need help!” The machine voice said, “Saturday, August tenth, eleven forty-five A.M.”

“I’ve got to go out,” Barbara said, retying her boot. It was ten minutes past one. She looked up to see
John regarding her with a hurt expression. All the way home they had been talking about a shower, a little nap….

“John, I’m sorry.” She sounded desperate. “I have to go.”

“Sure.”

“When I get back, I’ll tell you what this is all about.” She picked up her bag and hurried from the apartment. So much for weekends together.

If Martin was surprised to see
her at the restaurant, it didn’t show.

“I’m sorry to barge in,” Barbara started at the door. Past him she saw Binnie at one of the tables, the remains of a salad, a pitcher of something still in place. “A client said she was coming here. I’ll take her to Dad’s office when she shows up.”

“What for? We were just waiting for the kitchen to cool down before we get to work. It has by now.”

Just then a car pulled up with a squeal; Maggie jumped out and ran toward Barbara.

“Have a seat,” Martin said, stepping aside to let Maggie enter. “We’re out of here.” Binnie was clearing their table.

“Mitch is dead,” Maggie whispered. “The police had Ray identify the body, and they asked him questions and sent someone to Papa Arno’s to question him. What am I going to do?”

“Three deep breaths, first thing,” Barbara said calmly, feeling anything but calm. Dead! Police! Good God!

The long breaths were not working as well as they had before when Maggie first talked to her, but she was more coherent when she said, “Ray called me, just before I called you. He said the police asked him to go downtown to try to identify a body. It’s Mitch. Someone killed him. Ray said he was beaten up and killed.” She drew in another futile breath, let it out too fast. “They kept Ray and questioned him; he told them the truth, that he left Mitch in his house on Friday and he was gone on Monday. That’s all he could tell them. He doesn’t have anything to lie about! But what will I tell them?”

“The truth,” Barbara said sharply. “After Ray told you Mitch was back, you retained me to deal with him.”

“I told Ray I’d come right over, as soon as I could get a ride. He’ll be expecting me.”

“Let me think a minute,” Barbara said. She got up and walked the length of the restaurant and back again. Martin came from the kitchen with a tray of iced tea, silently put the glasses on the table, and returned to the kitchen. Barbara sat down again.

“Maggie, you have to stay calm and not go to pieces. I need some information. Did the police question Ray downtown or at his place?”

“Both. He said they kept him in the living room and two men went all over the house. They scraped something from the floor.”

“Is his wife back from her parents’ place yet with the children?”

“No. They’ll come home tomorrow.”

“Did the police fingerprint the house?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“That probably means no. You told me that someone had knocked things around there; you assumed it was Mitch. And you said someone had broken into Papa Arne’s house but hadn’t done any damage there or stolen anything. Remember?”

“Yes,” Maggie said in a faint voice. She was calmer now, paying close attention.

“Has it occurred to you that there’s more than one possible scenario to account for the breaking and entering at Papa Arno’s house, then for things being knocked over at Ray’s, and Mitch being gone?”

Maggie’s eyes widened, then narrowed as she thought. After a moment she said, “Someone could have been looking for Mitch; they could have taken him away.”

Barbara nodded. “Remember, you said that, not me. It could become important. Another thing to consider, Maggie. The police did a scraping, but they didn’t fingerprint the house.”

“They didn’t believe Ray,” Maggie said. “They won’t bother to look beyond him.”

“Good,” Barbara murmured. “Anything else?”

“No.” When Barbara remained silent, Maggie closed her eyes hard. Finally she opened them.

“Someone should fingerprint the house before Lorinne gets home tomorrow. She’ll clean things.”

Barbara wanted to hug her, but she remained silent, waiting.

“I don’t know what else you want,” Maggie cried. She studied Barbara for a moment, then closed her eyes again, and this time when she opened them, she asked, “Would the detective you use
do it for me?”

“You could ask him,” Barbara said. She wrote down Bailey’s name and number on the back of one of her cards and handed it to Maggie, then pointed to a phone on the cashier’s desk. Maggie hurried to it.

In a moment Maggie said, “He isn’t home. A woman said he’ll be back any minute.” She was holding her hand over her mouthpiece.

“Leave your name and this number, and ask her to tell him to call, that it’s important.”

Maggie spoke into the phone again, then came back to the table.

“We need a couple of minutes to talk,” Barbara reassured her. “Maggie, you absolutely must not say a word about seeing Mitch, about the stuff he left at your house. Not a word. If you even breathe that you saw him, you could be compelled to tell it all. At this moment, we don’t know anything about this murder, or even if it was a murder. Not how, when, where—nothing. If he was killed when all of you were at your place, there’s nothing to worry about, and the police will look further. But if it turns out that Ray was back home when Mitch was murdered, and if the police seriously suspect Ray, then if a large amount of money surfaced, it could be seen as a motive. You can’t tell Ray or anyone else anything. If they ask Ray to take a lie-detector test, he has to be free to tell the exact truth, or he’ll be in serious danger.” She paused. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She was very pale.

“All right. If the police ask you if you saw Mitch that weekend, tell them the truth, you didn’t. It isn’t a lie. You didn’t
see
him after Thursday night.”

Maggie started to say something, but stiffened as the phone rang. Martin picked up in the kitchen, then, after a moment, opened the door and said from the doorway, “It’s for Ms. Folsum.” His voice was very gentle. She ran to the telephone.

“He’ll do it,” Maggie said when she returned to the table. “I told him I’d meet him at Papa Arno’s, that’s where Ray was going, and I’ll take him over myself. I’ll tell them all what I think happened, that some men got in the house and took him out.”

“Will you have a reason for saying it?” Barbara asked.

“Sure. Ray told the truth, and Mitch didn’t have a car and wouldn’t have left on foot.”

It would do, Barbara decided. She jotted down phone numbers on one of her cards and handed it to Maggie. “Whatever happens, keep in touch with me. Try my place first, then my father’s, then the office, and if all else fails, call here. Someone will know where I am. I’ll find out what’s going on, and we’ll talk again soon.”

Maggie started to walk to the door, but she wheeled about and rushed back to the table, where she grasped the tabletop with both hands and leaned forward, her face close to Barbara’s. Her voice was low and harsh when she spoke. “I told you Ray was the first to know when I got pregnant. It was more than that. I was down on the beach, in a little cove that gets cut off at high tide, no exit if there’s a heavy surf. I was waiting for the ocean to come get me. I wanted to die, an accident in the ocean, something that would be regrettable but not scandalous, for my mother’s sake. It was all I could think of, to die, be done with Mitch, with my life, with the baby. All right, teenage angst, but it’s real, Barbara. It’s real enough to kill yourself. And Ray spotted me from the cliff, and he came down and got me. I fought him, but he carried me out, climbed up the cliff with me over his shoulder and waves crashing over both of us. We could have been killed, both of us. He took me home with him and gave me a hot bath; I couldn’t stop shaking I was so cold. He poured hot cocoa down me and talked to me. Really talked to me. He promised that my baby would not be a bastard, an illegitimate baby that people would scorn and hate and mock, but a respected member of the Arno family, complete with grandparents who would be silly about it, and three big Arno uncles who would protect it, and I would inherit three brothers and in-laws who would welcome me like a daughter. He made me believe it all. And it was all true,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It all came true.” She straightened up then, drew back from the table, and said very precisely, “We know other people were looking for Mitch, and why, but the police don’t know that. If I have to tell them, I will. Ray, all of the Arnos, they’re my real family. I can’t let anything happen to them.”