Desperate Measures (13 page)

They decided that Alex should stay in Will Thaxton's house, and Dr. Minick go back to Opal Creek.

“We don't want the investigators to suspect anyone has fled,” Barbara said. “You don't have to tell them where Alex is unless they come up with a warrant. But if they do make it official, call Will. Where should an official statement be taken?” she asked, turning to Will. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Alex said. He shrugged, then added, “I don't think the attorneys at Will's place care much for me.”

“One more thing,” Barbara said. “Alex, there could come a time when, for your own protection and safety, we will have to reveal your identity. Do you accept that?”

“No! Barbara, there are many kinds of death. I've given this some thought. There's the bolt of lightning, the fatal heart attack, a truck out of control. Then there's the death of a thousand cuts, a slow, tortuous path that I choose not to take. I've come to terms with life, you see. I stay out of sight and do my thing, and it's okay. That would end if the world comes clamoring around. If there's a remote possibility that you're going to reveal my identity, I don't want you to represent me. We should be very clear about this now, before temptation beguiles you irresistibly.”

His voice, low and intense, held an edge that had not been there before. She felt as if she had been warned: don't push too hard, or too far.

She nodded. “I promise that I won't tell anyone without your permission.”

Later, as Will was driving her back to the office, he said, “Do you think he meant it? He was talking about taking his own life, wasn't he?”

She nodded. She had no doubt that Alex meant every word. She said, “He tried living with people and it didn't work, remember. I think he has decided that if he can't live alone, or at least on his own terms, he won't live at all.”

11

Barbara didn't linger
at the office after Will dropped her off, but went on to her apartment. In a large complex close to the Rose Garden and the river, blocks away from traffic noise, it was still a walkable distance to downtown and her office. Her two-bedroom unit was on the second floor of the building, with one large area that was living room, kitchen, and dining space. A divider could be closed to screen off the kitchen, but she never bothered with it. One of the bedrooms was her office at home. And best of all, she had a hallway she could pace from her office to the kitchen and back.

But that evening when she entered, she looked about discontentedly. After Will's spacious, beautifully decorated house, her apartment looked barren. She should get some art, she thought, surveying the living room, thinking of the paintings Will had acquired-not that she was that fond of abstract art, but the colors were brilliant. And some doodads, knickknacks or something. She didn't even consider plants. They always started to die the minute she paid for them. She had a lot of books and magazines scattered around, even a cloisonné candy dish that was always empty because the only time she thought of it was when she actually wanted a piece of candy. That was the crux of the problem, she knew; her homemaking skills were on a par with her cooking skills, which meant zilch.

She scowled at a pair of going-to-court shoes by the sofa, and scowled even more at a messy heap of newspapers on it. Tomorrow she would straighten up, clean things, do a little shopping. Her refrigerator more often than not was just about as empty as the candy dish.

Her phone rang and she picked up when she heard Shelley's voice. “I've been watching for your lights. Can I come over?”

Barbara told her to come ahead, then started opening windows. It was getting dark outside, and the evening air had cooled magically. The breeze that drifted in felt good; later it would be too cool.

Shelley arrived, carrying a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. She lived across the pool area in an apartment identical to Barbara's, but hers was crammed with stuff, all very good stuff, chosen by someone with a very discerning eye, aware of the overall impact, which was of luxury, abundance, and good taste.

“What's going on?” Shelley asked by way of greeting.

“Let's crack that bottle, and I'll tell you.”

Then, sitting in the living area, where Barbara nudged her shoes aside, she told Shelley about the notes.

“He meant it,” Shelley said in a low voice. “He'd rather die than be a public spectacle. He knows what that would mean.”

Barbara nodded, then said, “Well, we're doing what we can for now. I've got that list of the hospital-committee members, and I started looking up people. A seventy-year-old priest, a nun, a bank president… God, this is a mess. I don't even know if that list means anything.”

“Don't you trust Dougherty? Couldn't he do that?”

“The Doughboy,” Barbara said. “The problem is that I don't know. I don't know how good he is, or if he can keep his mouth shut, or even if he's ever done this kind of work. It has to be kept absolutely quiet.”

They both understood that she meant this was Bailey work.

After a silence Barbara said, “What are you doing at home on a Friday night anyway?”

For the past two years or longer Shelley and Bill Spassero had been a thing, and to all appearances they were the perfect couple. Barbara always thought of him as a dandelion gone to seed, with a great head of platinum hair. And probably penny for penny, they were a perfect match; both were independently wealthy. He was a public defender with a growing reputation as a fine attorney.

“We had dinner, then I told him I have work to do. He thinks you're a slave driver.”

“True,” Barbara said.

“He's pushing too hard,” Shelley mumbled. “He wants to get married, and I keep telling him I'm not ready.”

“Ah,” Barbara said. She knew that Bill had been after Shelley to get a house or an apartment together, but Shelley had not mentioned a proposal before.

“He knows I'm not going out with anyone else,” Shelley went on. “It just seems reasonable to him for us to make it official, I guess. But I'm not ready. I don't want to get married and settle down. Not yet.”

“Then don't,” Barbara said.

Shelley smiled then. “It's so simple, isn't it? Just say no.” She stood up. “You want me to dig into the people on that list? Whatever's public anyway.”

“Nope. My job. I've got to be doing something, might as well be that.”

Several hours later she admitted to herself that she could just as well have spent her time knitting a scarf; the results couldn't be more discouraging than what she had accomplished. Apparently everyone on that list was above reproach.

It had not helped any that the image of Alex being rolled like a log and tossed on a campfire kept interposing itself between her and her monitor. She turned off her screen and roamed through her apartment, turning off lights, closing windows partway. The night had grown quite chilly, as she had known it would. June was the perfect month, warm and sunny days, not too hot yet, and blanket nights. At the kitchen window she sniffed and decided that Maria had been right; rain would move in overnight.

Then she was thinking of Hilde Franz and her death. The newspaper article reported no sign of foul play, but Frank's suspicions had been aroused and Barbara had confidence in his instincts.

Walking again, she thought that if Hilde Franz had had a lover, he probably had a key to her house, no need to break and enter and leave traces. But why? To keep her from disclosing their affair? That seemed improbable. Public officials, even the president, had affairs and were not strung up in the village green. She considered the scenario she had outlined to Frank: Hilde had gone through the forest to the Marchand house…. Maybe not, she thought then. Maybe she had seen someone else go there. Maybe she had seen her lover or glimpsed his car.

Then she wondered how much Hilde had told Frank. Her own clients had told all, she felt reasonably certain; had Hilde? Or perhaps more to the point, what would her secret lover assume or fear she had told Frank?

Stop this
, she told herself sharply. Hilde had had a serious disease. And that was all she knew about her death and all she might ever know unless she could get a copy of the autopsy report when it came in.

The next morning she made a grocery list. She had no bread for toast, no eggs, no cereal. And the juice had a peculiar odor. Later, in the supermarket, she found herself gazing at two girls with heavy-handed Goth makeup, black and white faces, black clothes, purple hair.… “Oh,” she breathed. Rachel. As soon as she had paid for her groceries, she went to a pay phone outside and called Will's number. “Be there,” she muttered, and he was.

“Will, it occurred to me that we will need pictures of Rachel Marchand before she turns up in court dressed in ankle socks and a pinafore, with her hair in pigtails. Can the Doughboy handle something like that?”

“If he can't, he has people around who can. You think the girl's cutting loose?”

“I don't know. But she was running around with a boy in a red Camaro, no name for him.”

“Okay. You might want to pick up a copy of the Springfield newspaper. The pressure's starting.”

Well, they had known it would, she thought. Then she called Bailey's number. His wife, Hannah, answered.

“Just ask him to give me a call, will you? I'll be home in a few minutes and stay there for the next several hours at least.”

She felt as guilty as a child sneaking out of the kitchen with warm cookies in both hands.

She had not been home more than half an hour when Bailey called.

“I have to see you,” she said. “You can call it close surveillance or something.”

“Jeez, Barbara, give me a break. You know I can't come up there.”

“You have to. Do you think I'd call if it wasn't important? Name the time. I'll wait for you.”

He muttered something unintelligible, then said, “Half an hour.”

He was prompt, and she was waiting to admit him. He looked as guilty as she had felt earlier, and he looked suspicious.

“No questions,” he said. “Don't ask me anything.”

“Right. You just listen. Coffee?”

He shook his head, pulled out a chair from the table, and sat down. “Shoot.”

“First,” she said, “Hilde Franz had a secret affair. Now she's dead, and Dad thinks her death is suspicious. Let's assume that someone did her in and that whoever it was knew she had an attorney, but he couldn't know how much she had confided in him. She might not have told her lawyer who the lover was, but can he count on that? Worst-case scenario, she might have seen him out at Opal Creek the day Marchand was killed.”

Barbara had been watching Bailey closely; she saw when his look of uneasiness changed, replaced by a new intentness.

“Dad and I both know different things about this case, or the same things with different interpretations. But if Hilde Franz's death turns out to be another murder, I have to know. He'll get the autopsy report, and I want a copy, too. I want you to get it for me.”

He looked incredulous and began to shake his head.

“And I want you to have someone keep an eye on Dad until we know about her death. I'll pay the freight on that one.”

“Jeez, Barbara. How about the moon while you're doing your wish list? I can't work both sides of the street. Go have a talk with him. He doesn't have a client anymore.”

“I can't do that. He still has Hilde Franz to protect and he will do whatever it takes to protect her name. He'd just think I'm trying to pull a fast one, muddy the waters even more.”

“Aren't you? Isn't that what this is all about? With me in the middle.”

She shook her head. “Do I look like I'm finagling? I know some things that make me frightened for his safety. It's that simple. If it turns out that Hilde Franz's death was natural, I'll call it off, pay up, and that's that. That's why I need the autopsy report. Meanwhile, you could do some routine maintenance on his security system, maybe even suggest that he be careful. You know. He listens to you.”

“Right. And if he finds out I've been scheming with the enemy, he'll really listen, won't he?”

“So don't let him find out.”

He stood up. “Thanks, Barbara, just thanks a million. He pays me to keep an eye on you, you pay me to keep an eye on him. It's to laugh, isn't it? See you around.”

At the door she said, “Oh, to make your job a little easier, Will Thaxton is an old high-school friend. We were on the debating team together. He got divorced recently, for the second time, and gave me a call. We may start debating again.”

His look was not friendly.

And he had not said a word about the autopsy report, she thought glumly when Bailey was gone. No promises. She knew he would keep an eye on Frank, that was a given; but how far he would go for her was uncertain.

12

On Friday afternoon
Frank had a meeting with Geneva Price and Ron Franz, Hilde's sister and brother. They and their mother were the beneficiaries of Hilde's will.

“We don't know what to do,” Geneva Price said after Frank went over the terms of the will with them. “We can't even get inside the house, or remove her body, or anything.”

“It's customary,” Frank said. “Until there's a decision about the cause of death, everything will remain sealed.”

“How long will it take?” Ron asked.

“A few days, or possibly a week or longer, depending on what they find.”

The brother and sister looked at each other helplessly. Geneva was sixty, the eldest of the three children, and she looked very much like Hilde, the same chestnut hair, much grayer than Hilde's, the same trim body and wonderful complexion. Ron, fifty-five years old, must have taken after the other side of the family; he was a thin, long-limbed man with very little sandy-gray hair, bony features, a large nose, ears like flags at half-mast. He owned and operated an auto-parts store in Medford, he said, and he couldn't walk away from it for an indefinite period.