Desperate Measures (5 page)

Barbara nodded, then said, “But why Alex? Why not a stranger, a different neighbor?”

“The tree inspector and Mike Bakken were on the other side of Opal Creek for over an hour that evening; they say there was one car that went by, Hilde Franz's car, and she turned in at my driveway and a few minutes later left again. They saw Leona Marchand leave in her car, and no one else was on the road the entire time they were out in Mike's orchard. You'll have to come and have a look for yourself, but if that's what they say, it's probably right. They would have seen anyone in a car pass by.”

Barbara shook her head impatiently; eyewitnesses provided the most unreliable of all testimony. Dr. Minick held up his hand, not quite finished yet.

“Yesterday detectives came to ask Alex questions, and they were not friendly. I'm afraid they will accuse him, and, Ms. Holloway, if they do, and if he is forced to stand trial, they more than likely will convict him. Without a shred of evidence, without an overwhelming motive, with nothing more than his appearance to sway them, they will decide he's guilty.”

They talked further, and then Barbara said, “Dr. Minick, there are aspects of this situation that are very disturbing. For one thing, why isn't Alex here with you? Will he fight for himself? Will he cooperate with me? Or even agree to see me? And whom will I meet: Alexander, Xander, or Alex? Who is he now, Dr. Minick?”

He nodded approvingly. “To be quite truthful, Ms. Holloway, I don't know who he is right now. He's withdrawn and not communicating. He'll see you, and I hope cooperate. He knows the trouble he could be in. I brought samples of his work for you to see, his cartoons and his comic strip. Also his complete medical record. If the authorities ask for it, I can truthfully say I don't have it.”

A delaying tactic, she knew; if they wanted it, they would get it one way or another. “Okay. I'll come out tomorrow, eleven or so, and meet your friend. I won't commit myself until we've met and he agrees to accept me, you understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said, rising from his chair.

She walked out with him through the office and shook his hand before he left. She suspected that he understood perfectly that she had already committed herself to defending Alexander Feldman if the need arose.

Frank Holloway liked to say he was retired, or mostly retired, with just a few things to finish up first, a few old clients who wouldn't let go. In fact, he enjoyed his daily walk to the office, enjoyed seeing the eager young attorneys bustling about, enjoyed bantering with his secretary, Patsy, baiting the other senior partner, Sam Bixby, now and then, searching for some obscure piece of legislation or case law.

Now, waiting for Hilde Franz, he was recalling the first time she had come to him for advice when Gus Marchand had threatened to sue her, one of her teachers, and the whole school system over what he had called a matter of brainwashing and mysticism. Hilde had stood her ground; she would have gone the distance, but the young teacher had fled in terror. Her first year of teaching, no money, the threat of a lawsuit, she had caved in and run home, back East somewhere.

During the year that Frank had worked on Hilde's behalf, he had become very fond of her. Mistake, he told himself now, as he had done then, as he did frequently. Don't form any attachment to the clients, or you could be blind to their shortcomings.

When Patsy tapped on the door, he got up to admit Hilde Franz. She was even better looking than he remembered, he thought, taking her hands, drawing her toward the comfortable chairs across the office from his desk. He greatly admired her lustrous chestnut-colored hair; a few gray hairs enhanced its beauty, and didn't add a single apparent year to her. He especially admired her wonderful complexion; she had baby skin. “You look terrific,” he said. “Coffee, wine, anything?”

She shook her head, smiling slightly. “Later, maybe.”

Patsy withdrew, and Hilde sat in the chair she had sat in years before. She gazed about the office, then at Frank, and said, “It's like a time warp in here. Nothing changes. You don't change.”

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it,” Frank said. “What can I do for you, Hilde?”

“Did you read about Gus Marchand's death?” she asked.

Frank nodded. “He's the proverbial bad penny, dead or alive, still bringing trouble. What now?”

“They suspect I killed him,” she said in a low voice.

“Good God! Why?”

“Right now they're interested in opportunity; it seems I qualify. But they'll soon get around to motive, and God knows I had motive.”

Frank held up his hand. “One thing at a time. Let's start with motive.”

“His daughter was in my school….” She told the story simply and completely. “At the PTA meeting he claimed I gave that book to Rachel and that I encourage the girls to wear scanty clothes and use makeup.” She shook her head. “Girls that age-one minute so sophisticated, they could be Parisian courtesans, and the next they paint their tongues green with food coloring and have hysterical fits of laughter. He said he'd fight to impose a dress code, and a makeup ban, segregated classes for the boys and girls, I don't even know what all. I was so angry, I stopped hearing him. He fought tooth and nail to keep sex-education classes out, drug—education classes, anything he didn't approve of. He came in with a list of books that he wanted banned, and he forced us to stop an afterschool club that met and played Dungeons and Dragons. There was always something new, something else evil, satanic, corrupting that I manage to sneak in. He said I have a past, and once the district knew about it, I'd be out of education altogether, that a divorcée should never have been hired in the first place. He was raving, a madman.”

Frank had been listening intently; he saw when her hands began to shake, and saw the anger that flared as she talked about the PTA meeting. When she fell silent, he said, “Now I think we'll have coffee. Or do you want a drink?”

“Coffee,” she said, leaning back. “Sorry. I got carried away all over again.”

A few minutes later, after Patsy had brought in coffee, Frank asked, “Did he actually accuse you of anything?”

She shook her head. “He didn't know anything. He just said I have a past. Earlier, back in the office, he said he would have me investigated, and that's what he referred to, I guess.” She looked at the cup she was holding.

“Hilde, if anyone actually investigates, will he find something?”

She put her cup down, leaned back again, and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “He might. I have a friend, a male friend. He's married. Highly respected. His wife is incurably ill, schizophrenia. Now and then she has episodes that put her in a hospital, sometimes for months, and then she returns home. She also has a heart condition, and no one believes she will live more than a couple of years. He can't divorce a desperately ill woman. We see each other when we can, and when she dies….” She opened her eyes. She had spoken in a monotone, as if she feared that any emotion that crept into her voice might cause it to fail altogether.

She picked up her cup, then set it down again.

“I'm going to ask you some pretty blunt questions, Hilde. How discreet have you been? Is there an easy trail? Neighbors? Friends? Telephone calls to trace, that sort of thing?”

It could be worse, Frank thought, but not a lot worse. They had been careful, but there really was always a trail if one was willing to pay enough to find it. Finally he said, “Okay. You have to call your friend and tell him the situation you're in. After that one call, no more contact for the next month or two. No phone calls, no meetings. If you have letters, burn them, same for any gifts that could be traced from him to you, get rid of them. Assume that you're being watched, investigated.”

She had grown paler with his words. She ducked her head and began to turn her coffee cup around and around on the saucer.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“I was going to be with him in San Francisco, the last week in June.”

“I'm sorry, Hilde. I'm truly sorry, but that's exactly the kind of thing you can't afford right now. If an investigator puts in a lot of hours without finding anything current, I suspect he'll go elsewhere. Don't load his gun for him, Hilde.”

After a moment she nodded.

“Now I'll go get us some fresh coffee, and you can use my phone. Call him from here. I'll wait for the coffee to drip; it will take a few minutes. Then we'll talk about opportunity.”

He did not make the coffee, nor did he carry it back; Patsy would have been mortified. Five minutes later he returned to his office; Patsy brought in fresh coffee and left.

Pouring, he said, “Okay, next installment. Opportunity.”

“They came around to ask why I was on Old Opal Creek Road that evening,” she said. “I guess Mike Bakken saw me go by. I delivered books from the library to Graham Minick and Alex Feldman. Alex has a deformity and he won't go to the library, and usually Cloris Buchanan takes their books out, but she was leaving town to attend her brother's wedding, and I said I could drop them off. I chatted with Graham for a few minutes, then went on to school. But they acted as if… I don't know. They were suspicious and didn't seem to believe that anyone would go out of her way to deliver or pick up library books. Cloris works at the library, and she lives out past Opal Creek; she does it all the time, and I did it that one day.”

“You left school to deliver the books?” Frank asked. Of course, he was thinking, the cops would find that suspicious.

“No, not like that,” Hilde said. “The fact is that I have diabetes, and stress is hard on me. I don't deny that I've had a lot of stress recently, and that day, with the graduation ceremony, teachers afraid that Gus would create another scene with a bigger audience, I was pretty strung out. Leona said Gus would eat and then walk over for the graduation ceremony, and some of the girls were painted pretty heavily. There was a rumor that some of the boys would act up, boy-locker-room humor, no doubt. I had to get out of there for a while. I went home, took my medicine, ate, and lay down for an hour, and on the way back I stopped by Dr. Minick's house.”

She put her cup down; she had not really wanted anything, coffeed out, she had said, but she needed something to do with her hands. “Frank, don't look at me like that. It's not a tragedy. Diabetes could take ten or fifteen years off your life, but maybe not, if you're careful. It's unpredictable that way. Like wine, a little with meals is okay, but that's all. Not really a hardship. You just learn to live with it, the way people with pacemakers learn to avoid microwave ovens. I watch my diet, try to avoid getting stressed out, get plenty of rest; I'm careful about medication, and I'm fine. But that's why I want an early retirement, while I am still fine.”

She drew in a breath, then said, “The police don't know yet about the PTA meeting, what all Gus said, but they will, and they'll be back. What should I do?”

No need for her to add that she was terrified, it was written large and clear on her face and in her restless hands. “First thing,” Frank said, “is to stay calm. Tell them about Rachel and Leona, the sex education book, and why you gave it to Leona. After that, nothing. You don't know what Gus was talking about at the PTA meeting. You don't, Hilde. You really don't. He made so many accusations and threats over the years that you stopped paying attention. When he mentioned segregated classes that night, you stopped listening. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “I really didn't listen to his actual words. He sounded crazy, a madman raving.”

“Tell them that and no more.”

“Others will tell them what he said.”

“You can't stop them, and it doesn't matter. You dismissed him as a raving lunatic. Just listen carefully to their questions and answer those that apply to Gus, Rachel, Leona, all that business. If they get personal, clam up. Tell them you want to consult your attorney and give me a call and don't say another word. Okay?”

He waited for her nod, then said, “Hilde, I think you're worried unnecessarily. You had a divorce in your past, but it was amicable on both sides, and if Gus wanted to make a big deal of it, that was his problem.” He saw the tension behind her eyes soften a bit as she grasped at the straw he offered. Then he said, “What I said before, about phone calls, visits, trips, it still goes, double in spades until the police arrest someone.”

“I called him,” she said in a low voice. “He said I should talk to you, follow your advice. We both understand.”

“Good. Now, no matter what happens from here on out, we'll take care of you. Try to relax, get some rest.”

She left then, and he thought about the murder, cursing under his breath. He had not yet asked for the name of her friend, but if the police came after her seriously, he would have to know and talk to the man before the police found him. They would want to know where he had been on Friday evening. If only she hadn't chosen that particular evening to play Good Samaritan and deliver books to Graham Minick's house.

He considered giving Barbara a call, but decided not yet. Hilde wasn't in any immediate danger; there would be time to bring in the troops. But he did want to talk to Bailey Novell, the only private detective he trusted. He wanted to know specific details about the murder and about Leona Marchand's accident. And Bailey could find out for him. He dialed.

5

After seeing Dr.
Minick off, Barbara told Maria to go home.

“Are you going to work late?” Maria asked. “Remember to stop and eat.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake! I don't need a keeper! Is Shelley still around?”

“Yes, in her office.” Maria covered her computer, glanced around the neat little reception room, and left.

Barbara tapped on Shelley's door, then opened it a crack when Shelley said, “Come in.”