Pride v. Prejudice (28 page)

I eased off the seat. My first step was a stumble, but I kept my balance. I was more concerned about my composure, which was less substantial than a cobweb. “What now?” I said as I stared at the cows. “If Steve McQueen couldn't jump a fence on a motorcycle, our chance of success on a riding lawn mower is slight.”

“Nonexistent,” Roderick responded distractedly. “I didn't see any place we could get across the river on this contraption. We have less than three hours of daylight. It's gonna get hairy after that.”

“Unless these are feral cows, there has to be a farm around here. I'm afraid to use my cell, but I might be able to persuade the farmer to let me use his.” I had no doubt that my charming demeanor would overcome anyone's reservations about admitting a stranger inside his house. The problem was whom to call. Not Peter or Evan. I contemplated calling the local taxicab company, but I'd have to use my credit card to pay the fare. Once my card was swiped, the information would be in the system and the feds would be chortling at my naivet
é
. Luanne was my best hope. I did not look forward to the conversation. “Any better ideas?” I asked the cows.

Roderick snorted. “Our faces may already be on the local channels. I'll be described as armed and dangerous. We may find ourselves on the porch, staring at the barrel of a gun.”

“So stay out of sight,” I said with a modicum of irritation. “I'm only wanted for questioning—or I was, anyway. My rap sheet is growing an inch every hour I spend with you. For all I know, I've been accused of being your accomplice when you escaped from Folsom.”

“When you were a teenager? Don't get carried away, Claire. When we're in the vicinity of the house, I'll disappear. I've had plenty of practice.”

“Leave the key in the ignition,” I said as I gingerly eased through the strands of barbed wire. I had accumulated more than enough scratches without adding one across my sore derriere. “Geronimo will know where to find it.”

“Who the hell is Geronimo?” Roderick asked again as he followed me. “I keep picturing a seven-foot-tall guy in war paint.”

I told him what Miss Poppoy had said as we followed the fence. The cows shifted away from us. I am not a student of bovine psychology, nor do I aspire to be one, but I assumed we made them nervous. I dearly hoped it was a celibate herd, lacking an ill-tempered bull. I was not in the mood for a taurine confrontation.

The farmhouse was rustic but tidy. I was encouraged by the satellite dish on the roof. Anyone with access to six hundred channels surely had a telephone. “Find a place to hide near the road,” I told Roderick.

He gave me a snarky salute and crawled through the fence. I went through a gate and walked around the house to the porch. I brushed leaves and twigs out of my hair, pasted on a civilized smile, and pushed the doorbell.

“Coming!” called a raspy voice from within. I maintained the smile when a stout, dark-haired woman opened the door. She was holding a spatula rather than a gun. “Hey,” she said, “are you here for the baby shower? I'm Abbie Benton, Olivia's sister-in-law. Come on in and make yourself comfortable. As soon as I finish plating the lemon bars, I'll get you a cup of coffee. Your name is…?”

“Claire,” I said. “You cannot believe how much I would prefer to be here for the baby shower, but I'm not. Please give Olivia my best wishes for a healthy baby. I'm in a spot of trouble. I need to make a call, but my cell is at the bottom of the river.”

She studied me. “You look like you've been dragged through the woods by your hair. I won't ask what happened to you because it's none of my business, but if there's a man involved, you need to dump him. You're welcome to use my phone, long as you're not calling overseas.”

“Farberville. Thank you so much, Abbie.”

She ushered me into a living room decorated with ceramic figurines, posters of puppies and kittens, multicolored throw pillows, and a TV only slightly smaller than the mural of the Last Supper. “Phone's in the kitchen,” she said. “How about a glass of iced tea?”

“That would be lovely.” I sat down on a stool and tried to remember Luanne's number. It was on speed dial on both my landline and my cell; I didn't remember when I had last dialed it. Abbie gave me a pitying look as she set a glass of iced tea within reach. I was still frowning when she slid over a plate with a lemon bar.

“You poor thing,” she said.

I couldn't quibble with her assessment. No one could feel sorrier for me than I did. I was scratched, sore, hungry, in the company of a killer, unable to go home to my husband, and wanted by the FBI. I willed myself not to fling my arms around Abbie's neck and bawl, and concentrated on Luanne's elusive telephone number. It occurred to me that it might be on the cell phone that Peter had grudgingly given me. Regrettably, I'd declared that said phone was at the bottom of the river, so pulling it out of my purse (yes, I'd clung to my purse despite everything) would not be politic.

I politely inquired if I might freshen up, and was given directions to the bathroom. I did not have time to sit on the edge of the bathtub as I'd done at Miss Poppoy's house. I found the phone, hit the appropriate button to access contacts, and softly crowed when I found Luanne's name and number. I repeated the number until I'd etched it into my mind. I kept muttering it while I washed my face, carefully avoiding the mirror above the sink.

“Thank you,” I said as I came into the kitchen. Abbie nodded as she poured a bottle of fruit juice into a punch bowl. I dialed Luanne's number, mindful that what I said would be overheard, and tried to think how best to present my dilemma tactfully.

“Hey,” I said when she answered. “I need a bit of help.”

“Now what?” Luanne said. “Sweetie's going to be here in an hour. I need to bathe and decide what to wear. I'm torn between the black negligee and the red teddy.”

“That man you and I were looking for earlier today … I found him, but it did not go well. Can you pick me up?”

“Where's your car?”

I glanced at Abbie, who pretended she wasn't listening. “Unavailable. I really need you to pick me up, Luanne. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“More than you can begin to imagine. Please?”

“All right,” she said, “but I may be wearing the negligee. Where are you?”

I asked Abbie for her address and directions to her house, then said to Luanne, “I'm at 1450 North Anger Road. ‘Anger' rhymes with ‘danger.' Take the first left after the E-Z convenience store and go about three miles. I'll be out by the road.”

“Alone?”

“No, I'm fine,” I said, smiling at Abbie. “A very kind woman took me in and gave me iced tea and a lemon bar. I'll see you shortly.” I hung up before I had to field more questions. “My friend should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes. I see you're busy getting ready for the baby shower, so I'll wait outside.” I picked up the lemon bar and took a bite. “This is delicious. When my life is calmer, I may call and ask for your recipe.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble with the law?”

“Me?” I scoffed. “I own the Book Depot on Thurber Street. The most heinous crime I commit is selling those yellow study guides to students who can't be bothered to read
War and Peace.
Thank you so much for letting me use your phone.”

“You're welcome,” she said, eying me suspiciously.

I went through the living room, across the porch, and along the road until I came to the fence. Roderick was nowhere to be seen. I wasn't feeling overly fond of him, but he was Sarah's alibi. He also might be able to identify Tricia Yates as one of the members of SAC. The photo on her driver's license was difficult to discern.

If I could find him and borrow Luanne's car, it might be time for an unannounced visit to the notorious apartment complex.

 

15

I looked back at the farmhouse to make sure Abbie wasn't watching from her porch before I said, “Roderick?”

He appeared at the edge of the woods. “Any luck?”

“I called a friend who's on her way to pick us up. As much as I'd like to leave you here, I need you to see if you can identify someone. Tuck was having an affair with a woman using the name Tricia Yates. I believe she was a member of SAC. She could have escaped, or she could have served out her sentence and been released.”

“Did she kill Tuck?” he asked as he crawled through the strands of barbed wire. He remained at a prudent distance from the road. “Does Sarah's lawyer know this?”

“I called to tell him, but he was worried that his phone was tapped. He said he'd received an anonymous tip about a motel.” I stopped to think about it. “Did you and Sarah rent a room that night?”

“At a cheap motel on the highway. She was afraid that if we went to her house, Tuck might come home because he'd been bitten by a mosquito and needed medicine for malaria. He was a sorry mess.”

So was I, although I wasn't about to admit it. “What time did you leave the motel?”

“Sarah left around midnight. I stayed the rest of the night, watching TV and drinking wine. The mattress was lumpy, but it beat a sleeping bag on the ground. I split at seven the next morning. There were cop cars and a news van at her place. I got this crazy idea that the feds were onto her and Tuck, so I went on to Zach's place and packed my crap in case I needed to run. When I drove to a gas station, I heard about the shooting on a local radio station. No details, just that the sheriff was investigating the homicide at their house and the victim was male.”

A car came down the road, driven by a woman with pink cotton-candy hair. We exchanged cheery waves. I glanced over my shoulder, noting that Roderick had retreated, and waved again as another car packed with baby shower guests drove by. Feeling conspicuous, I started walking toward County 102. Roderick's muttered curses suggested that he was having a more difficult time in the brush line. Two more cars passed me, their drivers and passengers gaping at me like guppies in their air-conditioned aquariums. I could only hope that Abbie was too occupied serving punch to call the sheriff's office.

Luanne finally appeared in her silver Jaguar. She's never offered any information about her financial situation, but Secondhand Rose was not the pride and joy of the local chamber of commerce. I knew she'd gone to boarding school in Switzerland and to a women's college that charged tuition equal to the gross national product of a small country.

She pulled up next to me and put down the window. “I'm Butch Cassidy, you're the Sundance Kid. Get in the car before the posse arrives.”

“Our ride's here,” I yelled as I opened the car door.

Luanne gave me a perplexed and not especially friendly look. “Please don't tell me that you're with that guy who escaped from prison.”

I shrugged as “that guy” came out of the woods and once again crawled through the barbed-wire strands. “I'm not going to tell you anything, okay? The less you know, the better. The only thing we're going to talk about is the weather.”

Roderick looked distinctly scruffy as he traversed the ditch, but he was not salivating copiously, rolling his eyes, reciting religious scriptures, or scratching his privates. I waited until he got in the backseat, then sat in the passenger's seat and said, “Let's get out of here.”

Luanne made maneuvers worthy of a trained professional, and within seconds we were racing down the road as if we were being pursued by the Batmobile. She seemed disinclined for conversation, as was I. When we reached the county road, she whipped out without so much as glancing at the stop sign. She navigated through the minimal traffic, and we arrived at her apartment in a matter of minutes. I exhaled.

“Now what?” she demanded.

“Go upstairs, flip the steaks in the marinade, take a shower, and douse yourself with seductive perfume,” I said. “I need to borrow your car. If anyone calls to inquire about me, respond in French and hang up.”

“As in Peter?”

I got out of the car and waited while Roderick squeezed himself out of the backseat. “Peter won't call you. I'm in trouble with the FBI. They want to speak to me, but I'm not ready to speak to them.”

Luanne looked at me. “Are you going to be okay, Claire?”

I went around the car and hugged her. “Yes, eventually. Have a lovely evening with Sweetie.”

“Should I bring the baked beans to the county jail?”

“I'll let you know, but it's not unthinkable. We need to leave, so run along. I promise to drive carefully.”

“Do you think I care about my car?”

I shooed her away before I became teary. Once I was in the driver's seat and Roderick was beside me, I said, “Let's drop in on Tricia Yates.”

He did not respond. I pulled onto Thurber Street and drove by the campus to the apartment complex. Its official name was Skull Creek, and it lived up to its seedy reputation. Although it was late Sunday afternoon, parties were in progress, some on balconies and others around the pool. Music blared in a cacophony of atonal screeches. Shirts and shoes were not required. I stopped and searched my purse for the piece of paper I'd taken—well, stolen—from the church files. “We're looking for 221-B.”

Roderick was staring at the students as if he were at a zoo (and on the preferred side of the bars). “Wow, this is a blast. Maybe I shouldn't have wasted my time at protests and demonstrations, trying to bully the Pentagon into noticing to us. I could have hung loose by the pool with semiclad women, smoking pot and guzzling brew.”

“Really?” I said grimly, searching the buildings for signs.

“No, not really. We were vehemently opposed to a senseless war in an obscure country seven thousand miles away. Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon spewed out propaganda about saving the world from communism.” His voice rose. “Do you think the five million people who died during the Vietnam War cared about politics? What about Laos and—”