The Best Defense (13 page)

“Mrs. Canby, wait!” Barbara said.

“I haven’t done such a thing. Who told you that?”

There was a slight pause.

“It doesn’t matter who it was.

I don’t understand this, or why…. However, if you are not making such a claim, I apologize for disturbing you.”

“No, please. Mrs. Canby, may I come talk to you?

It’s very important.”

“I’m sorry, I’m very busy.”

“Mrs. Canby, I am the defense counsel for Paula Kennerman, and there are influential people here who seem determined to interfere.” She shut her eyes and gripped the receiver harder.

“One of them is Richard Dodgson. May I come talk to you?” She did not open her eyes yet, and realized she was holding her breath.

She let it out in the pause that followed.

“Yes. Tomorrow? Two in the afternoon? I really am very busy through the week.”

“Tomorrow. Thank you, Mrs. Canby. Where?”

She would not speculate, she told herself as she speculated wildly after hanging up. It must have been Dodg son; his name had opened the door for her. He must have called Grace Canby. Maybe he thought she was footing the bill. What was the connection between them?

Mrs. Canby lived on the top floor of a condominium situated in a park like setting a short distance west of Salem, sixty-eight miles north of Eugene. There was a security guard at the front desk, a rare sight in Oregon.

When Barbara showed her ID, he checked it against a list, then escorted her to the elevator; he let her ride up alone, except for the closed-circuit television camera that moved slightly whenever she did.

The elevator opened onto a small foyer with only one door and another television camera. The door opened as Barbara approached to knock.

“Ms. Holloway, come in. I’m Grace Canby.” She was in her mid-sixties, tall and thin, with ropelike muscles in her arms and. a skeletal face that nevertheless was handsome. Her hair was white, drawn back in a severe bun, her eyes deep-set and pale blue. She was wearing gray sweatpants, a matching, short-sleeved sweatshirt, and running shoes.

“I put off my run until three,” Mrs. Canby said as she walked ahead of Barbara into a spacious living room.

The room was almost garish, with furniture covered in a material that had giant tropical flowers in brilliant colors.

A heap of newspapers was on the sofa, magazines and books on several tables. Two lamps had Tiffany shades, one a bamboo shade. Scatter rugs were red, blue, yellow.

“Let’s sit over here by the window, shall we?”

She led the way to two facing chairs with a game table between them. Glancing out the window, Barbara saw that the park became a real woods behind the building.

“They put in a running track through the trees,” Mrs.

Canby said, nodding toward the grounds.

“Doesn’t it look like something out of the Disney studios?”

It did. When Barbara turned once more to Mrs.

Canby, she found the older woman studying her.

“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Canby asked.

“Was it Richard Dodgson who told you I was misrepresenting myself?”

“Yes.” She was sitting perfectly still with an intent expression, as if she was still appraising her guest.

“And you called me right away to get to the bottom of it,” Barbara said.

“Will you tell me what he said?”

“In a minute,” Mrs. Canby said, her expression changing subtly. She looked a little more relaxed.

“After Rich called, I talked to my own attorney here in Salem. I didn’t mention Rich, but I asked him about you, and his report was completely satisfying, and that’s the reason I called. If Rich was telling a lie about you, I felt you should know about it. If it was the truth, I wanted you to stop.”

“I’m very grateful that you did call,” Barbara said.

“Yes. Well, I have tried very hard to remain neutral as far as Rich is concerned, but it is difficult at times.

He demanded that I call you off, or he said he would fence in the meadow and we could slug it out in court for the next ten years.” Her voice had become very dry.

“If he fences that meadow, I’ll hire people to tear down the fence, and then we’ll slug it out in court.”

“You’ve made it into a wildlife refuge,” Barbara murmured, visualizing the meadow with its pond and native grasses and flowers.

“I didn’t make it, it happened, and I want to keep it that way. I sold that acreage to Rich years ago, with the proviso that he never fence the lower meadow, or build on it. The deer and elk come down from the woods through the orchard and on into the meadow, the way they always have. If Rich ever fences in his piece of land, they will have to change their route, probably go out on the highway. It would be slaughter.”

Her mouth was set in a firm line. She would be a formidable enemy, Barbara thought.

“Did he object when you turned the ranch into a refuge for women?”

“Not really. He started to, but I told him if he printed a word about the ranch, I would start an investigation of him, his family, his publishing company, everything. I reminded him that everyone has something in the past better left buried. It would have been trouble for both of us, but he knew I would do what I said and he backed off. Things happened from time to time that made him angry all over again, and he has called me to protest, but he never mentioned the ranch in his paper, to my knowledge, until after that ghastly tragedy.” When Barbara started to speak, Mrs. Canby tapped the table with her finger.

“Wait. I have a question for you. Why does he care if you represent that wretched girl?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve never met him, never laid eyes on him or his family, or his paper until now. What kinds of things did he protest about?”

For a second she thought Mrs. Canby had said all she intended to say, but then she spoke again, and this time she filled in the background without any prompting.

“I thought for a time that one of my children might want to live at the ranch; they all grew up in that house, you see. But it didn’t work out that way. I came here to Salem to serve on a committee and it became pointless to try to maintain the house as a residence. For several years it remained empty. Then three years ago I got the idea to use the house again, to let it be used by women who needed isolation, and safety. Refuge. Repairs had to be made, some appliances replaced, things of that sort had to be done first. Six months later we were ready to open.”

“You said Rich Dodgson complained from time to time. Were they serious complaints?”

“Not at all. The first year someone used his driveway to turn around in, and he called me. I told him to stop being a fool and put up a gate, which he did. A few months later he called to inform me that the girls were skinny-dipping in the pond, a wickedness he would not tolerate or have his two grown sons witness.” A rather wicked gleam sparkled in her eyes.

Barbara suppressed a grin; Mrs. Canby laughed.

“I

used to do that myself when we lived there. I told him the rushes made a perfect screen and anyone who saw the girls had to work at it. He hung up on me.” She tilted her head, thinking.

“There was one other time, last winter.

This time he said they were trespassing on his side of the meadow and he would not stand for it. It seems,” she said caustically, “that one of the girls got up before dawn to try to get some photographs of the elk as they moved through the orchard. She was in position at first light. The elk,” she added, “relish the apples Mr. Reading leaves on the trees for them. Sometimes they even stand on their hind legs to reach them. What possible harm that girl could have done is a mystery. I asked Emma Emma Tidball was the housekeeper manager to tell them to stay off his property, and that was the end of that. That’s when he posted the entire acreage. Idiot. He was just looking for things to complain about, I’m afraid.” She shook her head.

“He’s the kind of man who gives orders and expects them to be obeyed; he seems to feel the stability of the universe is at stake.”

“Mrs. Canby, I’d like to talk to Emma Tidball and some of the women who stayed at the ranch. Do you know how I can get in touch with Emma?”

Mrs. Canby shook her head and pointedly looked at her watch. It was close to three.

“Emma retired after the fire. I offered her a job here in Salem, but she has family down in Cottage Grove and that’s where she went.

As for the girls, what records we had were kept in the house and were destroyed in the fire. Tell me, Ms.

Holloway, how can any of this be connected with that poor Kennerman girl?”

“I don’t know,” Barbara said.

“The reports said an other woman was there to lead the hunt for mushrooms that day. Angela Everts. Is she in your employ?”

“No. She went out to the ranch three days a week to help out with cleaning and gardening. She lives in Lewiston.”

“Do you think she would talk to me?” Barbara asked, and saw the knowing look in Mrs. Canby’s eyes.

“I suspect that people who work for you don’t talk unless you give permission,” she added.

“I’ll give you their numbers and give them both a call,” Mrs. Canby said.

“But, Ms. Holloway, I must tell you, I believe that poor girl lost her head and killed her child, just as Angela and Emma both believe. She was in great physical pain and emotionally exhausted. I know such things happen; very good, decent people can lose control. I feel dreadfully sorry for her, but I don’t believe for a minute that I can be of any help in her defense.”

“I think you’ve been a great help,” Barbara said.

“I’m just not sure yet what any of it means,” she added honestly.

sunday night she pretended she was not listening for the telephone to ring, for her father’s voice. Stop worrying about him, he won’t stay mad, she told herself sharply. But he might, she added. He might.

She made a list of things to do immediately. Call Fairchild first thing in the morning, ask for a copy of everything they had gathered to date: police reports, fire department reports, Paula’s medical records, the psychiatrist’s report, interviews with the others who had been at the ranch…. Call Emma Tidball and Angela Everts for appointments. No matter if they had been interviewed already, with Mrs. Canby’s intercession either or both of them might be more forthcoming. Go to Bessie’s office to read the latest diatribe.

She looked at her calendar with a frown. The trial date was set for the Tuesday following Labor Day, ten weeks away. And people took off in the summer, the Fourth of July holiday would interfere, as would the Labor Day holiday.

It would be tight, too tight to be comfortable, but there it was. Ten weeks; countdown had started.

She turned on her computer and keyed in an account of her conversation with Grace Canby not that she was very likely to forget, but to try to clarify an elusive feeling 116 that she had learned something important that she had not yet identified. Reading her report over, she still did not know what that elusive fragment had been.

She wondered if, when Mrs. Canby called her former employees, she would refer to Barbara as a girl. She smiled to herself, and rather hoped she would.

He could be so stubborn, she thought then, and drew in an exasperated breath when she realized she was still brooding about her father. He had always been stubborn, her mother had complained. Barbara remembered how, when they fought, which was rare, neither of them had yielded until her mother had found a way to make him think he had won. She tightened her lips and shook her head. No way would she play that game with him.

Suddenly she remembered what he had told her, that after her mother’s death he had not been able to sleep until he moved out to the house on the river, and there, soothed by the wind in the fir trees, and the rush of the river, he had finally been able to rest. She hoped he was sleeping now.

Her own grief had been different. She had fought sleep, not wanting oblivion, wanting to stay conscious to remember and relive everything, every moment, every word, over and over. When her body betrayed her and forced sleep upon her, she came awake again and again in tears with no memory of her dreams.

Abruptly she left her desk and went to the bathroom.

No brooding, she told herself. Take a soaking bath, go to bed, be rested for the day to come. Countdown had started.

Mr. Fairchild was cooperative, as she had known he would be. He would have copies of everything made and send it all over to the office, he said, and she told him no, she would pick it up later.

Next on her list was Angela Everts, who agreed to meet her at four that afternoon. As soon as she hung up, the phone rang, and she picked it up without waiting for her machine to answer.

“Oh, Barbara, Ted Fairchild here. Look, there’s been some kind of silly business over here. We can’t find the Kenneman file. I gave it to Bill to review on Friday, and he’s off on vacation and no one can put their finger on it now. He could have taken it home with him, I sup pose, and forgot to return it.”

“Damnation,” she muttered.

“I quite agree. I’m just terribly sorry, Barbara. I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything.”

“I know. I know. Can Spassero be reached? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. He has a married sister back East somewhere, and parents in Massachusetts, and … I re ally don’t know. He’ll be back in two weeks,” he said in a more hopeful voice.

“Thanks,” she said dryly.

She called the district attorney’s office and asked for Gerald Fierst, who would be prosecuting the case. She had known him years ago, but had not met him again since returning to Oregon. He was very cautious, she remembered, and her memory was confirmed by his reluctance to give her anything. When she hung up she was in a black mood. He would put together some thing, she knew, but how much? The same stuff he had handed over to Spassero in the beginning? Maybe, maybe not. When, was another question; as soon as possible, he had said, but they were pretty busy, people on vacation, you know how that goes.

Emma Tidball called her “dear” and said she could come by anytime. She had nothing if not time. They agreed on eleven that morning.