F is for Fugitive (26 page)

“What
would
she do?”

“This has nothing to do with her.”

“What's the story, then? Where's Shana?”

“She was supposed to meet me here Wednesday night. I was late getting up there. She never showed, or she might have left early. I haven't spoken to her, so I don't know where she was.”

“You'd meet her here on the
premises
?” My voice fairly squeaked with incredulity.

“Elva takes a sleeping pill every night. She never wakes.”

“As far as you know,” I said tartly. “I take it your affair is ongoing?”

I saw him hesitate. “It's not an affair in that sense of the word. We haven't been sexual with one another for years. Shana's a dear woman. I enjoy her company. I'm entitled to friendship.”

“Oh, right. I conduct all my friendships in the dead of night.”

“Please. I'm begging you. Get in your car and go. Elva will want to know every word we said.”

“Tell her we were talking about Ori Fowler's death.”

He stared at me. “Ori's dead?”

“Oh yeah. This morning she got what was probably a penicillin shot. She went to heaven right after that.”

For a moment he didn't say a word. The look on his face was more convincing than denial. “What was the circumstance?”

I did a quick verbal sketch of the morning's events. “Does Elva have access to penicillin?”

He turned abruptly and started walking toward the building.

I wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. “You were Jean Timberlake's father, weren't you?”

“It's over. She's dead. You'll never prove it anyway, so what difference does it make?”

“My question exactly. Did she know who you were when she asked for the abortion?”

He shook his head, walking on.

I scooted after him. “You didn't tell her the truth? You didn't even offer to help?”

“I don't want to discuss it,” he said, biting off the words.

“But you do know who she was involved with, I bet.”

“Why ruin a promising career?” he said.

“Some guy's career meant more than her
life
?”

He reached the door to the reception area and went in. I debated going in, but I couldn't see any purpose in pursuing the point. I needed corroboration first. I reversed myself, heading for my car. I glanced back over my shoulder. Mrs. Dunne was standing at the window again, her expression inscrutable. I wasn't sure if my voice had carried that far or not, and I didn't care. Let them sort it out. I wasn't worried about him. He knew how to look out for himself. It was Shana I was worried about. If she hadn't showed up at all Wednesday night, then where had her car keys come from? And if she'd arrived for their meeting as planned, then where the hell had she gone?

I drove back to the motel. Bert was handling the desk. Mrs. Emma and Mrs. Maude had taken charge of the Fowlers' living room. They stood side by side, plump women in their seventies, one in purple jersey, the other in mauve. Ann was resting, they said. They'd taken the liberty of having Ori's bed moved into Royce's room. The living room had been restored to some former arrangement of furniture and geegaws. It seemed enormous somehow after the overbearing presence of the hospital bed with its cranks and side
rails. The bed table was gone. The tray of medications had been removed by the police. Nothing could have eradicated Ori more effectively.

Maxine had arrived, and she seemed faintly mystified to be there with no responsibility to clean. “I'll make some tea,” she murmured the minute I arrived.

We were all using our library voices. I found myself mimicking that tone they all used—saccharine, solicitous, patently maternal. Actually, I was discovering that it was useful for situations like this. Mrs. Maude was all set to bring me a little lunch, but I demurred.

“I have something to take care of. I may be gone for a while.”

“Well now, that's just fine,” Mrs. Emma said, patting my hand. “We'll take care of everything here, so don't you worry about that. And if you want a bite to eat later, we can fix you a tray.”

“Thanks.” We all exchanged sorrowful smiles of a long-suffering sort. Theirs were more sincere than mine, but I must say Ori's death had generated a nagging sensation down in my gut. Why had she been murdered? What could she possibly have known? On the face of it, I couldn't see how her death bore any relation to Jean Timberlake's.

Bert appeared in the doorway and gave me a look. “Call for you,” he said. “It's that lawyer fella.”

“Clemson? Great. I'll take it in the kitchen. Can I pick it up in there?”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

I moved into the kitchen and picked up the phone.
“Hi, it's me,” I said. “Hang on.” I paused decently and then said, “Thanks, Bert. I've got it.” There was a little click. “Go ahead.”

“What was that about?” Clemson asked.

“It's not worth going into. How are things with you?”

“Interesting development. I just got a call from June Haws at the church. You never heard this from me, but apparently she's been hiding Bailey all along.”

“He's with her?”

“That's the problem. He was. The sheriff's department is starting a house-to-house search. I guess a deputy came to her door and next thing she knew, Bailey'd bolted. She doesn't know where he's gone. Have you heard from him?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, stick around. If he gets in touch, you gotta talk him into turning himself in. With word out on his mom's death, the town's going nuts. I'm worried about his safety.”

“Me too, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Just stay by the phone. This is critical.”

“Jack, I can't. Shana Timberlake's missing. I saw her car keys at the hot springs and I'm going up after dark to take a look.”

“Screw Shana. This is more important.”

“Then why don't you come over here yourself? If Bailey calls, you can talk to him.”

“Bailey doesn't trust me!”

“Why is that, Jack?”

“Damned if I know. If he heard me on the phone, he'd be gone again in a flash, convinced the line was tapped. June says aside from her, you're the only one he trusts.”

“Look, this may not take me long. I'll be back as soon as possible and touch base with you then. If I hear from Bailey, I'll talk him in. I swear.”

“He
has
to surrender.”

“Jack, I know that!” I felt a flash of irritation as I hung up the phone. Why was the guy suddenly on my case? I knew the kind of jeopardy Bailey Fowler was in.

I turned to leave the kitchen. Bert was standing in the hall. He moved into the kitchen as if he'd been in motion all along. “Miss Ann wants some water,” he mumbled.

Bullshit, I thought. You little snoop.

I went upstairs to my room and changed into my jogging shoes. I tucked my penlight, my picks, and my room key in my jeans pocket. I wasn't sure I'd need the picks, but I thought I should be prepared. I debated about my little .32. When I bought the Davis, I got myself a custom-fitted Alessi shoulder rig, adjusted so that the holster and weapon would lie snugly against my left side, just under the breast. I yanked my shirt off and strapped the rig into place. I pulled a black turtleneck over it and studied the effect in the bathroom mirror. It would do.

I tried Shana's first, just to be sure she hadn't come back in the meantime. Still no one home and no sign she'd been there. I took one of the side streets that
arched up over the hill, intersecting Floral Beach Road on the far side of town. The funeral cortege for Tap Granger had probably taken this same route and I was anxious to be off the road before they returned. I did a slow trot north, toward 101. The two-lane road smelled of eucalyptus, hot sun, and sage. A pale brown grasshopper kept pace with me for a bit, darting from one weed top to the next. On my right was a narrow, rocky ditch, a low wire fence, and then the grassy hillside, strewn with boulders. Live oaks provided an occasional patch of shade. The stillness was broken only by the shrill peeping of the birds.

I heard a vehicle approaching from around a bend up ahead. A Ford pickup barreled into view, slowing when the driver caught sight of me. It was Pearl, with his son, Rick, beside him in the passenger seat. I slowed to a walk and then halted for him. The old man's big, beefy arm hung out the open window. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue dress shirt and a tie that he'd pulled loose so he could unbutton his collar.

“Hello, Pearl. How are you?” I said, giving Rick a nod.

“You missed the funeral,” Pearl said.

“I didn't know Tap that well and I felt like the service should be reserved for his friends. You're just coming back?”

“Everybody else is still at the grave site, I guess. Me and Rick ducked out early so's we can open the pool hall for the wake. Joleen says it's what he'd want. What are you up to? Out for some exercise?”

“That's right,” I said. I had to leap right over the image of the wake itself—french fries and a pony keg. I mean, was that class or what? Rick murmured something to his father.

“Oh yeah. Rick wants to know if you've seen Cherie.”

“Cherie? I don't think so.” I figured she was on a bus to Los Angeles, but I didn't say that.

“She was supposed to go with us, but she went off to the store and hadn't come back by the time we left. You see her, tell her we're at the pool hall.” He checked the rearview mirror. “I better get out of the way here before somebody plows into me. Why don't you stop by for a beer when you get done with your jog?”

“I'll do that. Thanks.”

Pearl pulled away and I began to trot. As soon as the truck was out of sight, I crossed the ditch and hopped over the wire fence. I climbed straight up, heading for the cover of the trees. In two more minutes I had reached the crest and was peering down the slope toward the mineral springs hotel, half obscured in the eucalyptus grove.

The tennis courts were empty. From where I crouched, I couldn't see the swimming pool, but I was very much aware of the work crew: three men and a wood chipper just off to my right. I found a natural hideaway in the shadow of some rocks and settled in to wait. In the absence of people, reading matter, and
ringing telephones, exhaustion crept over me and I sank into sleep.

The sun began to drop in the sky about four. It was technically winter, which, in California, means the perfect days are cut from fourteen hours to ten. In past years, February usually brought the rains, but that was changing of late. The hillside was quiet now, the work crew apparently gone. I scrambled out of my hiding place, reassured myself of some privacy, and peed in some bushes, taking care not to wet my good jogging shoes. My only objection to being female is that I can't pee standing up.

I took up a position where I could watch the hotel. An unmarked police car pulled into the parking lot at one point: Quintana and his partner on the move again. Or maybe Elva had filed a complaint. That'd be rich. Fifteen minutes later, they came out again and took off. As darkness gathered in the trees, a few lights came on. Finally, at seven, I began to traverse the hill, heading for the fire lane that cut across the top of the property. From there I could angle down to the hotel from the rear. I used my penlight sparingly, picking my way with care through heavy brush, twigs snapping underfoot. I was hoping the work crew had cleared a nice path for me, but they'd apparently been laboring farther down on the hill.

I stumbled onto the fire lane, a packed dirt road just wide enough to admit one vehicle. I moved to the left, trying to calculate where the hotel was in relation to
me. The whole backside of the building was apparently dark, and it was tricky to calculate my exact location. I risked the penlight. The shallow beam picked up an object looming in my path. I stopped dead. Ahead of me, nearly obscured by overhanging branches, was Shana's battered Plymouth.

 

 

 

 

 

I circled the car, which looked vaguely sinister on the path, like the hulking carcass of some inexplicable beast. All four tires were flat. Someone hadn't wanted Shana to go anywhere. I would almost have been willing to bet she was dead, that she'd arrived for her rendezvous with Dunne and had somehow never left. I lifted my head. The woods were chilly, smelling of leaf mold, damp mosses, and sulfur. The dark was intense, the night sounds eradicated, as if my very presence were a warning to the cicadas and tree frogs whose songs had been stilled. I didn't want to find her. I didn't want to look. Every bone in me was aching with the certainty that her body was here somewhere.

I could feel my stomach churn as I flashed the narrow beam from the penlight across the front seat of Shana's car. Nothing. I checked the backseat. Empty. I stared at the trunk lid. I didn't think my lock picks would work, so if the trunk was locked, I was going to
have to go down to the office, break in, lift Shana's car keys from the lost-and-found box, and come back. I pressed the catch and the trunk swung open. Empty. I let out the breath I'd been holding unconsciously. I left the lid up, not wanting to risk the noise I'd make slamming it shut. “Sanctuary” had to be somewhere close.

I tried to picture the plot map for the spas in this area. I flashed the penlight across the close-growing shrubs, looking for a path. Foliage that appeared to be a vivid green by day now had the matte, washed-out look of construction paper. A set of packed dirt steps, shored up by railroad ties, descended through a gap in the bushes.

I went down. A rustic wood arrow indicated that “Aerie” was just off to my left. I passed “Haven” and “Tip Top.” “Sanctuary” was the fourth hot tub from the summit. I remembered then that it was located at the end of a long, twisted path, with two smaller paths branching off it. The leaves underfoot were soggy and made scarcely any sound, but I noticed I was leaving marshy prints in my wake. When I reached “Sanctuary,” I played the penlight across the ground. There were three cigarette butts trampled among the leaves. I hunkered down, bending close. Camel unfiltered. Shana's brand.