The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel (12 page)

A. P. Hill digested this information. After a few moments’ thought she said, “How would you go about catching them?”

“Are they headed this way?”

“Not that I know of. It’s a theoretical question. I know how to defend suspects. I don’t know much about the process of capturing them. Say you’re FBI, Lewis. What do you do to apprehend the suspects?”

Paine laughed. “It would give me a good excuse to hang out in bars, wouldn’t it? I could sit around hoping to get picked up by two women.” He looked hopefully at his dinner companions.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Katy DeBruhl.

“Seriously,” said A. P. Hill.

“Okay.” Paine’s smile vanished, as he shifted into the thought patterns of pursuit. “What would I do? I’d get a list of all the close friends and relatives of both women, and I’d ask local law enforcement people to keep an eye on their houses, just in case the two ladies stop by for an unannounced visit, and I might tap their phone lines, too. If the renegade lawyer has a telephone calling card, I’d get the phone company to give me a list of the numbers
she’s calling. I’d check the purchase on her credit cards, if she’s dumb enough to keep using them.”

“I think she’s using other people’s credit cards,” said Katy.

“That works, too, as long as we know their names, and I presume we do, if the victims reported the robberies to the police. Every time one of the women uses a stolen credit card, you can put a pin in the map, and after a while you ought to be able to tell where they’re headed.”

“And what happens when you find them?”

Lewis Paine was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Well, you hope they are unarmed and that they’re willing to listen to reason.”

“And if not?”

He shrugged. “If not … Well, there was a poem written in the Thirties by another lady outlaw.…

“Is this your photograph, young lady?”

Elizabeth looked up from her sketch to see the stern leathery face of Hillman Randolph looming over her. The old man was brandishing the snapshot of Bill’s new house, which had been making the rounds of the art therapy class. “Yes,” said Elizabeth with careful politeness. Hillman Randolph’s expression was always one of unremitting severity, and his scarred face did not help matters. It was impossible to tell if he was angry by
looking at him. Elizabeth decided to risk no further comment until she could gauge his mood.

“I know this house,” Mr. Randolph said, tapping the photo. “It’s in Virginia.”

Elizabeth sighed. “It is not Mount Vernon.”

He scowled. “Any fool can see that! Never said it was. This house is in Danville, Virginia, or near it, anyhow.”

She stared up at the old man in astonishment. “Yes, it is, but how did you know that?”

The old man beamed triumphantly. “I knew it! My job used to take me all over the Southeast. Never will forget that house!”

Elizabeth tried to picture Mr. Randolph as a young traveling salesman, but unless the old curmudgeon had been more genial in his youth, she didn’t think he could have been much good at it. “What did you do for a living?” she asked.

“Well, I guess it’s all right to tell you now. After all, it was a long time ago, and I’m retired,” he drawled. “I was one of the government men. Federal law enforcement.”

Elizabeth nodded. She could indeed picture Hillman Randolph as a federal agent: no people skills required. The customer is always wrong.

“Yeah, I knew that place well,” the old man was saying. “Belonged to a fellow named Dolan.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard about him. He’s quite a character. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Well, he always was a twisty son of a gun, but unless he figured out a way to outwit the Grim Reaper, I don’t think you’re going to get a chance to meet old Jack Dolan. He was a personal crusade of mine. I wanted to nail him so bad I could
taste it. We put him away for a couple of months once on a tax charge, but that was nothing. Never had the chance to do any better than that. Jack Dolan went up in flames in a car wreck in … oh … 1953, I think it was.”

Elizabeth stared. “But that’s impossible. He’s still living in that house. My brother said so!”

“Your brother says he lives with the late Jack Dolan.” Mr. Randolph gave her a pitying smile. “And you’re the family member they locked up for being crazy?”

T
he real estate transaction moved swiftly, thanks to the large down payment made possible by liquidating a portion of Bill’s stock portfolio, and even more to Sunshine Properties’ pressing desire to be rid of their white elephant of a mansion. The bank president, who knew Bill socially, expedited the paperwork for the mortgage, and permission was given for the purchasers to begin to clean the house and move in their possessions.

A. P. Hill was still out of town. She phoned in once a day for messages, and Bill gave her progress reports about the house, but she wasn’t very forthcoming about the case she was working on. “It’s going to take longer than I expected,” she told Bill. “Can you manage without me?”

Since A. P. Hill routinely worked six-day weeks and twelve-hour days, and since she had not taken a vacation since the firm opened for business, Bill assured her that he could manage without her. It was a nuisance for her to be gone when there was so much work to do on the house, but he would have to make the best of it. Besides, if Powell Hill had a fault, it was a tendency to be opinionated and dictatorial. This way after Bill
made all the decisions, he could argue with perfect truth that he would have consulted her about, say, the dining room wallpaper, but she hadn’t been around to give him the benefit of her wisdom.

Bill and Edith had taken to spending evenings and weekends getting the place ready to become their new office complex. They gave the downstairs walls a fresh coat of paint, scrubbed down the floors and the woodwork, and began moving files and bits of office furniture into the cavernous old parlor, which swallowed up their meager possessions and still looked empty.

“It’s like putting peas in a pumpkin,” Edith remarked. She leaned on the mop, and surveyed the room with a critical eye. “Not only do we need more furniture, we need better furniture. These beat-up metal desks just ruin the ambiance.”

“It was all we could afford,” Bill reminded her. He was perched atop a stepladder, putting new lightbulbs in the brass chandelier. “And now that we’ve bought this place, it’s still all we can afford. Just be glad they’re paid for.”

Edith frowned. “Maybe we could put them close to the walls, and arrange plants in front of them to hide the dents.”

“Can we afford plants?”

“I have a shovel. What time does the park close?”

Bill frowned. “I don’t have time to take on any new larceny cases just now, thank you. Maybe I’ll hint to Mother for a house-warming gift of greenery.”

Bill was screwing in another lightbulb when Mr. Jack wandered in, nibbling on a Popsicle he’d liberated from Edith’s refreshment stash in the freezer. “How’s it going, boys?” he asked genially, peering up at Bill.

The lightbulb did not work. “It’s not the bulbs,” muttered Bill, indicating the still unlit light fixture. “I think the wiring is bad on this thing.”

Mr. Jack put his hand to his ear and called out, “Say what?”

“
I said: We need a new chandelier
!” Bill yelled back.

“Oh,” said Mr. Jack, digesting this information. He shook his head. “Nope. Nope. I don’t agree with you there.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope. Give you three reasons. Number one: You can’t afford one. Number two: None of us knows how to play one. And number three: What you really need in this room is a new light fixture!”

Before Bill could find out if Mr. Jack was putting him on, the old man ambled out again, humming to himself.

“I hope he doesn’t start answering the phone,” said Edith.

As if in answer to her remark, Bill’s cell phone, propped up on the mantelpiece, began to ring.

“Can you get that?” he asked from the top of the ladder.

Edith set down the mop and lunged for the phone. “Bill MacPherson’s cell phone,” she said into the receiver. “I’m not an answering machine. If you want him, say so.” She listened intently for a few moments, and then said, “We’re fine. Well, we’re getting enough exercise anyhow. How about yourself?”

“Who is it?” asked Bill, easing down the ladder.

“It’s your sister.” Edith cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “I didn’t think people in asylums were allowed to use the telephone.”

“She’s a voluntary patient,” Bill reminded her. “She isn’t dangerous. Hello?”

“Hi, Bill.” Elizabeth sounded tired. “I got your letter. Thanks for the picture of the house. I can’t wait to see it in person.”

“It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?” said Bill. In his voice pride of ownership struggled with modesty. “We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

It occurred to him that burbling about one’s own good fortune is extremely bad form when speaking to someone newly bereaved. “Well, never mind that,” he said. “The house needs repairs, and we have a lot of work ahead of us. We’re scrubbing a few square miles of floors. I have aches in muscles I didn’t know I had. But how are you?”

“Oh, you know … one day at a time. Don’t let’s talk about that.”

“Is the therapy helping?”

“It’s hard to tell, Bill. I take the pills, and I still feel like screaming, but who knows how bad I’d feel if I weren’t taking them? … Anyhow, that is not what I called about.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you, but—”

“Bill. Shut up.” There was a gratifying silence at the other end of the phone. Elizabeth took a deep breath and plunged on. “I wanted to talk to you about the old man who lives in your house. Have you asked to see any identification?”

“Umm … no.” She could hear the bewilderment in Bill’s voice.

“Well, could you?”

After a long pause, Bill said, “I don’t think he has a driver’s license. The Department of Motor Vehicles gets very nervous when people over ninety take to the highway.”

Elizabeth sighed. She was going to have to explain. “Look,
Bill, ask Mr. Dolan if he remembers a man named Hillman Randolph. You’d better write it down. Mr. Randolph isn’t ninety, but he’s pretty old, and he says that he knew the fellow who built your house back in the nineteen forties.”

“Really? Where did you meet him?”

“In here. That’s not important. Never mind about that.” Elizabeth thought the time had come to talk very fast to forestall the inevitable and uncomfortable questions that were about to arise. “According to Hillman Randolph, Jack Dolan died in a wreck in the Fifties.”

Another long pause. “I don’t think he’s a ghost,” said Bill mildly. “He eats Popsicles.”

“Of course he’s not a ghost, Bill! But he may be an imposter.”

“With rubber makeup, you mean? Like Dustin Hoffman in
Little Big Man
? This guy deserves an Academy Award, then, because he looks every single minute of ninety-two, and I’ve seen him up close, and I’d swear it’s really skin.”

Elizabeth sighed. Trying to explain things to Bill could drive you crazy even if you weren’t already in a mental institution. Stay calm, she told herself. Hysteria negates your argument. “The substitution may have happened a long time ago,” she said quietly. “At the time of the car wreck Mr. Randolph mentioned.”

Something suddenly occurred to Bill. “Mr. Randolph? Isn’t your friend there Dr. Randolph?”

“No. He’s not on staff here. He’s a patient.”

“I see.” Bill’s voice took on the warm, comforting tones of one who has just realized what is going on, and who will now agree with anything and everything you say.

Elizabeth winced. “I am not hallucinating, Bill.”

“No. Of course not. You sound great. Just like your old self! And, hey, thanks for this hot tip. I’m going to look into it first chance I get. Of course, Edith and I have a lot of painting and furniture moving to do just now, and Powell is in Richmond taking her sweet time over that corporate case of hers, but just as soon as things settle down here, I’ll get right on it.” Elizabeth recognized his tone of voice. It was the one he had used to discuss the Easter Bunny with her when she was four. There was no reasoning with him now. His mind had slammed shut.

“You are taking your medicine on schedule, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Bill. In fact, I think it’s time for a pill right now. Goodbye.”

Bill switched off the phone and leaned wearily against the mantelpiece. “Poor kid,” he said to Edith. “She’s lost touch with reality.”

E
lizabeth was in art therapy again. She stood before the easel in a few moments of silent contemplation before she set to work. As usual she began her charcoal drawing of a storm-tossed boat, but this time among the foam-capped breakers, she sketched in the head of a seal. In this view of the shipwreck, pictured a thousand times in her imaginings waking and sleeping, the boat was far in the distance, under dark clouds, like fists in the sky above it. Now the face of the seal loomed large in the foreground of the sketch, peering out at the viewer with sad, knowing, human eyes.

Long ago the Scots and the Norsemen believed that seals were drowned sailors held forever in the ocean that was life—and death—for them. For this reason, they considered it unlucky for anyone to kill a seal. Her late husband, Cameron, who was a marine biologist, had also hated those who killed seals,
but he called his beliefs “ecology,” and his opinions on seals had nothing to do with mysticism. Still, he had told her the old Scots stories of the drowned souls who came back as seals, and of the other seal creatures, the Selkies, who took the form of seals while they were in the ocean, but who transformed themselves into men when they came on dry land to marry a human maiden. After a few years together, the Selkie lover would leave his human bride and return to the sea, to his other form and his other life in the depths.