F is for Fugitive (23 page)

“I bet he's got you peekin' under your bed at night.”

“I peek every night. 'At's the only thrill I get. I keep hopin' to find somebody peekin' back at me.” The laughter was shrill, underscored with anxiety.

“I'll come over there and help you out.”

“Big help you'd be.”

“I would. I got me a pistol,” Ace said.

“ 'At's not what Betty says.”

“Yeah, he's loaded half the time, but that don't mean his pistol works.”

“Bailey Fowler shows his face, you'll see different,” Ace said.

“Not if I get him first,” one of the other men said.

The front page of the local newspaper was a rehash of the case to date, but the tone of the coverage was picking up heat. Photographs of Bailey. Photographs of Jean. An old news photo of the crime scene, townspeople standing in the background. The faces in the crowd were blurred and indistinct, seventeen years younger than they looked today. Jean's body, barely visible, was covered with a blanket. Trampled sand. Concrete steps going up on the right. There was a quote from Quintana, who sounded pompous even then. Probably bucking for sheriff since he joined the department. He seemed like the type.

I wolfed down my breakfast and went back to the motel.

As I went up the outside stairs, I saw one of the maids knocking on the door of room 20. Her cart was parked nearby, loaded with fresh linens, vacuum cleaner mounted on the back.

“Maid service,” she called. No answer.

She was short, heavyset, a gold-capped tooth showing when she smiled. Her passkey didn't turn in the lock so she moved on to the room I'd been in before Bert had so graciously consented to the change. I let myself into room 24 and closed the door.

My bed was a tumble of covers that beckoned invitingly. I was buzzing from coffee, but under the silver shimmer of caffeine my body was leaden from weariness. The maid knocked at my door. I abandoned all hope of sleep and let her in. She moved into the bathroom, a plastic bucket in hand, filled with rags and supplies. Nothing feels so useless as hanging around while someone else cleans. I went down to the office.

Ori was behind the counter, clinging shakily to her walker while she sorted through the bills Bert had left in the box for outgoing mail. She was wearing a cotton duster over her hospital gown.

Ann called from the other room. “Mother! Where are you? God . . .”

“I'm right here!”

Ann appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? I told you I want to do your blood test before I go up to see Pop.” She caught sight of me and smiled, her dark mood gone. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Ann.”

Ori was leaning heavily on Ann's supporting arm as she began to shuffle into the living room.

“You need some help?” I asked.

“Would you please?”

I slipped under the counter, supporting Ori on the other side. Ann moved the walker out of her mother's path and together we walked her back to the bed.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom while you're up?”

“I guess I best,” she said.

We did a slow walk to the bathroom. Ann got her settled on the commode and then stepped into the hall, closing the door.

I glanced at Ann. “Could I ask you a couple of questions about Jean while I've got you here?”

“All right,” she said.

“I took a look at her school records yesterday and I noticed that you were one of the counselors who worked with her. Can you tell me what those sessions were about?”

“Her attendance, primarily. The four of us did academic counseling—college prep requirements, dropping or adding classes. If a kid didn't get along with a teacher or wasn't performing up to snuff, we'd step in and test sometimes, or settle disputes, but that was the extent of it. Jean was obviously in trouble scholastically and we talked about the fact that it was probably connected to her home life, but I don't think any of us actually felt qualified to play shrink. We might have recommended she see a psychologist, but I know I didn't try to function with her in that capacity.”

“What about her relationship to the family? She hung out here quite a bit, didn't she?”

“Well, yes. During the time she and Bailey dated.”

“I get the impression both your parents were fond of her.”

“Absolutely. Which only made it awkward when I tried to approach her professionally at school. In some ways, the ties were too close to permit any objectivity.”

“Did she ever confide in you as a friend?”

Ann frowned. “I didn't encourage it. Sometimes she complained about Bailey—if the two of them weren't getting along—but after all, he was my brother. I was hardly going to jump in and take her side. I don't know. Maybe I should have made more of an effort with her. I've often asked myself that.”

“What about other faculty or staff? Anybody else she might have confided in?”

She shook her head. “Not that I ever knew.”

We heard the toilet flush. Ann stepped back into the bathroom while I waited in the hall. When Ori emerged, we maneuvered her back into the living room.

She shrugged off her duster and then we struggled to get her into bed. She must have weighed two hundred eighty pounds, all ropey fat, her skin paper white. She smelled fusty and I had to make a conscious effort not to register my distaste.

Ann began to assemble alcohol, cotton wipe, and lancet. If I had to watch this procedure again, I'd pass out.

“Mind if I use the phone?”

Ori spoke up. “I need to keep this line free for business.”

“Try the one in the kitchen,” Ann said. “Dial nine first.”

I left the room.

 

 

 

 

 

From the kitchen, I tried Shana Timberlake's number, but got no answer. Maybe I'd stop by her place again in a bit. I intended to press her for information when I caught up with her. She held a big piece of the puzzle, and I couldn't let her off the hook. The telephone book was on the kitchen counter. I looked up Dr. Dunne's office number and tried that next. A nursey-sounding woman picked up on the other end. “Family practice,” she said.

“Oh, hi. Is Dr. Dunne in the office yet?” I'd been told he was out until Monday. My business was with her.

“No, I'm sorry. This is Doctor's day at the clinic in Los Angeles. Can I be of help?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I was a patient of his some years ago and I need records of the illness I was seeing him for. Can you tell me how I'd go about getting those?”

Ann came into the kitchen and moved to the refrigerator, where she removed the glass vial of insulin and stood rolling it in her palms to warm it.

“When would this have been?”

“Uhm, oh gee, 1966 actually.”

“I'm sorry, but we don't keep records that far back. We consider a file inactive if you haven't seen Doctor in five years. After seven years, records are destroyed.”

Ann left the room. I'd miss the injection altogether if I strung this out long enough.

“And that's true even if a patient is deceased?” I asked.

“Deceased? I thought it was your medical records we were talking about,” she said. “Could I have your name please?”

I hung up. So much for Jean Timberlake's old medical chart. Frustrating. I hate dead ends. I returned to the living room.

I hadn't stalled long enough.

Ann was peering at the syringe, holding it needle up, while she tapped to make sure there were no bubbles in the pale, milky insulin. I eased toward the door, trying to be casual about it. She looked up as I passed. “I forgot to ask, did you see Pop yesterday?”

“I stopped by late afternoon, but he was asleep. Did he ask for me again?” I tried to look every place, but at her.

“They called this morning,” she said irritably. “He's raising all kinds of hell. Knowing him, he wants out.”
She swiped alcohol on the bald flesh on her mother's thigh.

I fumbled in my handbag for a Kleenex as she plunged the needle home. Ori visibly jumped. My hands were clammy and my head was already feeling light.

“He's probably making everybody's life miserable.” She was blabbing on, but the sound was beginning to fade. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her break the needle off the disposable syringe, dropping it in the wastebasket. She began to clean up cotton wads, the paper from the lancet. I sat down on the couch.

She paused, a look of concern crossing her face. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I just feel like sitting down,” I murmured. I'm sure death creeps up on you just this way, but what was I going to say? I'm a bad-ass private eye who swoons in the same room with a needle? I smiled at her pleasantly to show I was okay. Darkness was crowding my peripheral vision.

She went on about her business, heading toward the kitchen to return the insulin. The minute she left the room, I hung my head down between my knees. They say it's impossible to faint while you're doing this, but I've managed it more than once. I glanced at Ori, apologetically. She was moving her legs restlessly, unwilling, as usual, to concede that anybody might feel worse than she did. I was trying not to hyperventilate. The creeping darkness receded. I sat up and fanned myself as if this was just something I did every day.

“I don't feel good,” she said. She scratched at her arm, her manner agitated. What a pair we made. Apparently her mythical rash was acting up again and I was going to have to make a medical evaluation. I sent her a wan smile, which I could feel turning to perplexity. She was wheezing now, a little mewing sound coming from her throat as she clawed at her arm. She looked at me with alarm through thick glasses that magnified the fear in her eyes.

“Oh Lord,” she rasped. “It couldn't . . .” Her face was ashen, swelling visibly, hot pink welts forming on her neck.

“What is it, Ori? Can I get you anything?”

Her distress was accelerating so quickly I couldn't take it in. I crossed to the bed and then yelled toward the kitchen. “Ann, could you come in here? Something's wrong.”

“Be right there,” she called. I could tell from her tone I hadn't conveyed any sense of urgency.

“Ann! For God's sake, get in here!”

Suddenly I knew where I'd seen this before. When I was eight and went to Donnie Dixon's birthday party next door. He was stung by a yellow jacket and was dead before his mother reached the backyard.

Ori's hands went to her throat, her eyes rolling wildly, sweat popping out. It was clear she wasn't getting air. I tried to help, but there was nothing I could do. She grabbed for me like a drowning woman, clutching my arm with such force that I thought she'd tear off a hunk of flesh.

“Now what?” Ann said.

She appeared in the doorway, wearing an expression that was a mix of indulgence and irritation at her mother's latest bid for attention. She paused, blinking as she tried to assimilate the sight before her. “What in the world? Mother, what's wrong? Oh my God!”

I don't think more than two minutes had passed since the attack began. Ori was convulsing, and I could see a flood of urine spread along the bedding under her. The sounds she made were none that I had ever heard from a human being.

Ann's panic was a singing note that rose from low in her throat. She snatched up the phone, fumbling in her haste. By the time she had dialed 911, Ori's body was bucking as if someone were administering electric shock treatments.

It was clear the 911 dispatcher had picked up the call. I could hear a tiny female voice buzz across the room like a fly. Ann tried to respond, but the words turned into a scream as she caught sight of her mother's face. I was frantically trying CPR techniques, but I knew there wasn't any point.

Ori was still, her eyes wide and blank. She was already beyond medical help. I looked at the clock automatically for time of death. It was 9:06. I took the phone out of Ann's hand and asked for the police.

About 20 percent of all people die under circumstances that would warrant an official inquiry into the cause of death. The burden of determining cause and manner of death usually falls to the first police officer
to appear on the scene. In this case, Quintana must have been alerted to the call because within thirty minutes the Fowlers' living quarters had been taken over by sheriff's department personnel: Detective Quintana and his partner, whose name I still didn't know, the coroner, a photographer, two evidence techs, a fingerprint tech, three deputies securing the area, and an ambulance crew waiting patiently until the body could be removed. Any matter related to Bailey Fowler was going to be subject to official scrutiny.

Ann and I had been separated shortly after the first county sheriff's car arrived. Clearly, no one wanted us to confer. They were taking no chances. For all they knew, we'd just conspired in the murder of Ori Fowler. Of course, if we'd been brash enough to kill her, you'd think we'd also have been smart enough to get our stories straight before we called the cops. Maybe it was only a question of making sure we didn't contaminate each other's account of events.

Ann, wan and shaken, sat in the dining room. She had wept briefly and without conviction while the coroner went through the motions of listening for Ori's heart. Now she was subdued, answering in low tones as Quintana questioned her. She seemed numbed by circumstance. I'd seen the reaction countless times when death is too sudden to be convincing to those most affected by it. Later, when the finality of the event sinks in, grief breaks through in a noisy torrent of rage and tears.

Quintana flicked a look in my direction as I passed
the door. I was on my way to the kitchen, escorted by a female deputy whose law-enforcement paraphernalia must have added ten inches to her waist measurement; heavy belt, portable two-way radio, nightstick, handcuffs, keys, flashlight, ammunition, gun, and holster. I was reminded uncomfortably of my own days in uniform. It's hard to feel feminine in a pair of pants that make you look like a camel from the rear.