Desperate Measures (16 page)

Then, with food on the plates, Barbara sat opposite him and picked up her coffee, took a sip, frowned, and put it down. “I just don't understand,” she said. “You put the coffee here, water there, and turn it over to God to finish. What's so hard?”

Frank laughed. The eggs were tough, the toast barely warmed through, the coffee quite bad.“It's okay, Bobby. Don't stew about it.”

“This may be the only bad food I've ever had in this house,” she said thoughtfully. “A question. What's that big box thing on the porch?”

“Box thing…?” Then he remembered. “Ah, my worm bin. I'm raising worms out there.”

“Pet worms? Why can't they just live in the dirt like the rest of the worms?”

“Not pet worms. Perfect little composting machines. You feed them food scraps, trimmings from veggies, stuff like that, and they produce worm castings that you spread on the garden. Best soil conditioner there is.”

“Worm poop,” she said, giving him a strange look.

“In polite society we say worm castings,” he said a bit coolly.

“Well, since I don't have a member's card to polite society, I know what I'll call it. Are you going to hang out at home today? You should; get some rest, tend the worms, maybe take another soaking bath. I sent Alan away to get some sleep, and there's another guy out there in a car reading a map or something.”

He knew that today he would do nothing that involved stooping, bending, reaching, moving his head much, even walking. “We can send him away, too. I have some things to take care of at the office,” he said. “Patsy and I are working on the index for my book.”

“That's great!” Barbara said. “It's the last step, isn't it?”

He thought uneasily of the few little revisions that had come to mind. “I think so,” he said.

“Wonderful! I'll drop you at the office, swing by my own joint and deliver some marching orders, and then hightail it out to Hilde Franz's house. We should be done out there in a few hours.” She gave Frank an appraising look. “Are you up to talking about all this now?”

“Christ on a mountain! I told you I'm all right.”

“Okay. But don't interrupt. I see several different possible scenarios here. Someone neither of us knows a thing about killed Gus Marchand. The cops are homing in on him, and as soon as they make the arrest, we're both out of this. Or, Daniel Marchand did it. Possible opportunity. Same for Leona Marchand, opportunity. Moving on, Hilde Franz killed Gus Marchand. She had motive and opportunity. The big problem is that the unveiling of a hidden affair doesn't seem enough motive to justify a murder. Maybe her professional reputation was, though. A morals charge, the loss of her job, loss of her pension? Maybe. Next, her secret lover killed him and she knew it, or suspected it. Same problem. Why take such a terrible risk to keep an affair secret? Or, neither one had anything to do with it, and her affair was the only thing worrying her. And in that case we have two separate situations to deal with.”

Frank had been listening intently, satisfied by her inclusion of Daniel Marchand that he was not her client, and not at all surprised that she knew there had been a secret affair. He held up his hand and said, “I have another scenario to add to the list. She saw someone else who didn't belong in those woods at that particular place Friday.” He couldn't remember if he had told her about Hilde's call the night she died. He did so now. “She remembered something, but decided it could wait another day and hung up.”

“Probably we'll never know what was on her mind, but we do know that someone has a key to her house and that he went there to do something or to get something, not just to bop you in the head, or he would have been armed with a weapon of some sort.”

Regarding her with an unwavering gaze, Frank said, “You might want to find out where your client was last night.”

She nodded. “I will. Do you know who her lover was?”

“No.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “She told me he's very highly respected, married to a schizophrenic who has a bad heart and isn't expected to live very long. She implied that when the wife succumbed, Hilde and her lover would be married.”

“Wow!” Barbara said. “That should limit the search. How many people fit that niche?”

“If that was the truth, he should not be hard to find. She could have been deluding herself.”

After a moment Barbara said, “The mad wife in the attic. Would she have checked up on anything he told her?”

“I doubt it. She was a middle-aged woman in love.”

“So back to square one. We just don't know. I have a list of names to be checked out; one of them may be her Mr. Wonderful.” She paused. “If I hand it over to Bailey, will you let me have his results?”

Frank hesitated exactly as she had done, then nodded. “No point in paying two investigators to duplicate the work, I guess.”

“Good. It's a list of the hospital-committee members she worked with.” She told him about her talk with Cloris Buchanan. “The list might mean nothing, but right now it seems to be the only lead I have.”

She looked at their plates; they both had left most of the eggs. “Cats or worms?” she asked.

“Cats. They don't care what they eat, just as long as it's people food.” As she began to scrape the plates, he said, “It occurred to me this morning that there might be a video of her house, the contents, for her insurance carrier. Along with a rider for valuables—jewelry, computer, the like. You know; I had one made a year or so ago. In case of fire, you can prove what has to be replaced. I have the insurance company's name on file. I'll give them a call.”

She nodded. “Great. So far we haven't come up with a thing.” She started for the porch with the remains of breakfast, and he held up his hand.

“One more thing. I haven't asked you a single question about your client, and I won't, but I have to say this: if you try to use Hilde as a scapegoat to clear your client in the event he is charged, I'll fight you every step of the way.”

“I know,” she said. “But last night makes this a little different. It's a personal thing now, and I intend to get to the bottom of it, wherever that takes me. I have no intention of offering up an innocent sacrificial lamb or goat, but if Hilde Franz's lover was involved, I'll get him, and her name might come into it.”

A few hours later she was in Hilde Franz's bedroom examining the books. She had finished those in the living room, kitchen, and office and had spent a long time going through papers in the home office: receipts, tax records, mutual-fund reports…. Hilde's house had nothing of value, she had decided. Some nice furniture and appliances, good quality, but nothing of real value, including tons of books, and now more books. She opened a paperback, turned it upside down and let the pages spread so that anything loose would fall out. So far she had collected several grocery orders, a drycleaning receipt, and scraps of paper used as bookmarks. She had hoped to find a Christmas card, or a birthday card, a note with a name and phone number, anything. The other rooms held many books on education, child psychology, history books, cookbooks, how-to books, managing-your-diabetes books, travel books, a lot of poetry, and now she was examining mysteries and romances, most of them paperbacks by writers she had never heard of. She sighed and pulled out the next several books. They were wedged in so tightly that the easiest way to examine them was to remove several at a time, and since she was not putting them back in as tightly as they had been, she had one or two left at the end of each shelf; she laid them on top of the others. So she wasn't leaving things quite as neat as she had found them, she thought; sue me.

Bailey was finishing up, and she had one more row of books to open and close. Hours wasted, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Another slip of paper fluttered out of a book, and she examined it, then jammed it into her pocket with the other scraps. Like them, it told her nothing. Sometimes Hilde had torn pieces of newspaper to use as bookmarks, or lined notebook paper, whatever was at hand. This was from a newspaper. She finished the tedious job, went to the bathroom and washed her hands.

“Ready?” Bailey asked.

“Might as well be,” she said.

“I want to talk to you and your dad,” Bailey said then. “Who am I working for now? You or him? Who's going to pay the bill?”

“Good question,” she said. “I'll give him a call, see if he's still at the office. I asked him to wait for me to pick him up, but God only knows what he'll take a notion to do.” She dialed, then asked Bailey, “Did you get Hilde's address book?”

“Yes, Mother,” he said sarcastically. “And the regular telephone book. Sometimes people jot down notes in them.”

She got the office, was put through to Frank, who told her to bring Bailey and come along. When she hung up, she said, “He wants to make sure you put new locks on the doors.”

“Give me a break,” Bailey muttered. ‘'I'm out of here. You coming?”

They sat in Frank's office later, Bailey with a bourbon and water in his hand, and tried to untangle whose case this was now.

“The question boils down to who's going to pay the freight for Bailey,” Barbara said.

“I don't have a client,” Frank said. “You pay.”

“In that case there may be difficulties later,” she said. “I can't have him reporting to you if you intend to use the information against my client.”

“Christ,” Frank muttered. “Let's get one item settled before we worry about the next. Hilde Franz's secret lover. If we find Mr. Wonderful and he can't account for himself when Marchand was killed, or last night either, we toss him to the wolves. Agreed?”

“I thought you were determined to protect Hilde's reputation,” Barbara said.

“I said I won't stay out of it if you scapegoat her. She was worried about Mr. Wonderful's reputation; I'm not. I don't give a damn about his reputation.”

“Hey, you two,” Bailey drawled, “let's get back to the original question: who do I send the bills to?”

“Her,” Frank said. “I don't have a client, as I keep reminding you.” He looked at Barbara and said, “Your client can afford Bailey, I hope.”

She grinned. “Fishing without a worm? We can afford it.”

“How about those out-of-town trips?” Bailey asked. “Do I go after them?”

“Not yet,” Barbara said. “We may have to later, but put that on hold for now unless you correlate someone else's trips at those same times.”

“You might try to find out if anyone on that list planned a vacation for the last week of June,” Frank said, remembering that Hilde had planned to spend time during that week with her lover in San Francisco.

A few minutes later, when it appeared that for the moment at least Bailey knew who he was working for, Barbara said, “Okay if I have a copy of that autopsy report? I was planning to break into the police station and swipe a copy, but yours will serve.”

Frank scowled, then shrugged. “Why not? This matter is a can of worms.”

“Box of worms,” Barbara said.

“Can,” Bailey chimed in. “The expression is ‘can of worms.'”

“In our house we keep them in a box,” Barbara said.

Bailey gave her a mean look, and a meaner look at Frank, who was grinning. He finished his drink and stood up. Glancing at Barbara, then turning to Frank, he said, “Hear that your nephew is coming to visit, exchange room and board for painting the house. Good idea.”

“What the devil are you driving at? I don't have a nephew.”

“I'll furnish him,” Bailey said. “And he'll be able to paint, starting tomorrow.”

Barbara nodded, and after a moment, Frank nodded also. They were both recalling how easily the security of his house had been breached when a killer had entered with Barbara, holding a gun on her.

“Name?” Frank asked. “I probably should know his name, just in case anyone asks.”

“Herbert Holloway, thirty-nine years old, from Austin, Texas. He'll show up in the morning.” He turned to Barbara. “You going to stay there for a while?”

“Not if there's a live-in painter.”

“Yes,” Frank said. “If I need a live-in painter, so do you.”

Reluctantly she nodded.

After Bailey left, Barbara sat at Frank's desk and read the autopsy report, and Frank continued to read his manuscript. He was almost finished with the entire thing and was still undecided about asking permission to add a word here and there. He glanced up and saw Barbara gazing into space with an abstracted look.

“What is it?” he asked.

She pulled herself back from wherever she had been and regarded him. “They think she overdosed on purpose, don't they?”

“I don't know.”

“No sign of forced entry, muscle relaxant in her blood, prescription medicine at hand and nothing else. What else are they to believe?”

“She didn't overdose on purpose,” he said.

“How do you force someone to take half a dozen pills and not leave a sign of a struggle? That medication isn't an amnesiac, is it? Could she have taken one or two, then forgotten and taken more? I'll find out. Where's her prescription container?”

“In the safe.” Rising, he tried to stifle a groan.

“Oh, God, Dad! I'm sorry. This can wait until tomorrow or next week. Let's go home.”

“Since I'm up, might as well get it out. And then go home,” he added. He was ready to head out, maybe even take a nap. Or better, soak first, and then a nap. He opened the safe and handed her the plastic bag Milt Hoggarth had left with him, then watched her copy the information from the prescription container.

He was thinking of bath and bed, and she was thinking: Hilde Franz had filled that prescription over two years ago for thirty capsules, and there had been fourteen left for the investigators to sample. Sixteen in more than two years; Hilde certainly had not been addicted to them. She made a mental note to find out what injury or illness Hilde had suffered two years ago, and how many of the capsules she might have taken at that time. The label said, “As needed for pain, not to exceed four a day.”