F Is for Fugitive Page 12

  "I think I'll sit down a minute," I murmured. "Well, honey. You're pale as a ghost. Go out to the kitchen and get a glass of juice."

  The orange juice helped and I ate a piece of toast, cleaning up the kitchen afterward as a way of avoiding the woman in the other room. Three thousand hours of investigative training hadn't quite prepared me for a sideline as a drudge. I felt like I'd spent half my time on this case washing dirty dishes. How come Magnum, P.I., never had to do stuff like this?

  At twenty minutes after ten, Maxine appeared, cleaning supplies in a plastic bucket on her arm. She was one of those women with an extra hundred pounds wobbling around her body like a barrel made of flesh. She had one eyetooth the size and color of a rusty nail. Without any pause, she took out a dustrag and began to work her way around the room. "Sorry I'm late, but I couldn't get that old car to start to save my neck. I finally called and asked John Robert to come over with a set of jumper cables, but it took him a good half hour just to get there. I heard about Royce. God love his heart."

  "I'm going to have Ann take me over there this evening," Ori said. "Provided I feel well enough."

  Maxine just clucked and shook her head. "I tell you," she said. "And I bet you haven't heard a word from Bailey. No telling where he's at."

  "Aw, and I'm worried sick. I never even laid eyes on him after all this time. And here he's took off again."

  Maxine made a face that conveyed sympathy and regret, then flapped her dustrag to indicate a shift in tone. "Mary Burney's making a perfect fool of herself. Windows boarded up, big lock on the gate, convinced he'll go over there and carry her off."

  "Well, whatever for?" Ori asked, completely mystified.

  "I never said she had brains, but then half the people I talked to are loading their guns. Radio says he 'may be seeking refuge among former acquaintances.' Just like that. 'May be seeking refuge.' Now, if that's not the silliest thing I ever heard. I told John Robert, 'Bailey's got more sense than that,' I said. 'For one thing, he doesn't know Mary Burney from a hole in the ground and besides which, he wouldn't go anywhere near that place of hers because it backs right up to the National Guard Armory. Chain-link fence and all what kind of thing. Floodlights? Lord God,' I said. 'Bailey may be a criminal, but he's not a retard.' "

  As soon as I could decently insert myself into the conversation, I told Ori I'd be taking off. Maxine got conspicuously quiet, hoping no doubt to pick up some information she could pass along to John Robert and Mary Burney next chance she had. I avoided giving any indication where I meant to go. The last glimpse I had of them, Maxine was handing Ori a fistful of junk mail to sort through while she applied Lemon Pledge to the top of the bookshelf where the mail had been stacked.

  Tap Granger's widow lived on Kaye Street in a one-story frame house with a screened-in porch. The exterior was painted an ancient turquoise trimmed in buttercup, the porch steps eaten through by something that left ominous holes in the wood. She came to the door looking pale and thin, except for the belly that jutted out in front of her like a globe. Her nose was a dull pink from tears, her eyes swollen, with all the makeup cried off. Her hair had the tortured appearance of a recent home permanent. She wore faded jeans that hung on her narrow behind, a sleeveless T-shirt that left her bare arms bony-looking and puckered from the chilly morning air. She had a plump baby affixed to one hip, his massive thighs gripping her bulk like a horseman preparing to post. The pacifier in his mouth looked like some kind of plug you might pull if you wanted to let all the air out. Solemn eyes, runny nose.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Granger. My name's Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator. Could I talk to you?"

  "I guess," she said. She couldn't have been much more than twenty-six, with the lackluster air of a woman drained of youth. Where was she going to find someone who'd take on another man's five kids?

  The house was small and rustic, the construction crude, but the furnishings looked new. All Sears Revolving Charge Account items, still under warranty. The couch and two matching Barcaloungers were green Naugahyde, the coffee table and the two end tables flanking the couch were blond wood laminate, still unscarred by little children's shoes. The squat table lamps had pleated shades still wrapped in clear cellophane. She'd be paying it all off till the kids were in high school. She sat down on one couch cushion, which buckled up slightly and let out a sigh as the air was forced out. I perched on the edge of one lounge chair, uneasy about the half-eaten Fluffer-nutter sandwich that kept me company on the seat.

  "Linnetta, quit doin' that!" she sang out suddenly, though there didn't seem to be anyone else in the room. I realized belatedly that the twanging sound of a kid jumping up and down on a bed had just ceased. She shifted the baby, setting him on his feet. He swayed, clutching at her jeans, the pacifier wriggling around in his mouth as he started working it with a little humming sound.

  "What'd you want?" she said. "The police have been here twice and I already told 'em everything I know."

  "I'll try to be brief. It must be hard on you."

  "Doesn't matter," she shrugged. The stress of Tap's death had made her face break out, her chin splotched and fiery pink.

  "Did you know what Tap was getting involved in yesterday?"

  "I knew he had some money, but he said he won a bet with this guy who finally paid up."

  "A bet?"

  "Might not have been true," she said, somewhat defensively, "but God knows we needed it and I wasn't about to ask after it too close."

  "Did you see him leave the house?"

  "Not really. I'd come in from work and I went straight to bed as soon as him and the kids left. I guess he dropped Ronnie and the girls off and then took Mac to the sitters. He must have drove into San Luis Obispo after that. I mean, he had to, since that's where he ended up."

  "But he never said anything about the breakout or who put him up to it?"

  "I wouldn't have stood for it if I'd known."

  "Do you know how much he was paid?"

  Her eyes became wary in the blank of her face. She began to pick idly at her chin. "Nuh-unh."

  "No one's going to take it back. I just wondered how much it was."

  "Two thousand," she murmured. God, a woman with no guile, married to a man with no sense. Two thousand dollars to risk his life?

  "Are you aware that the shotgun shells were loaded with rock salt?"

  Again, she gave me that cagy look. "Tap said that way nobody'd get hurt."

  "Except him."

  Light dawned in that faraway world of the 98 IQ. "Oh."

  "Was the shotgun his?"

  "Nuh-unh. Tap never had a gun. I wouldn't have one in the house with these kids," she said.

  "Do you have any idea at all who he was dealing with?"

  "Some woman, I heard."

  That got my attention. "Really."

  Back went the hand to her chin. Pick, pick. "Somebody saw 'em together at the pool hall night before he died."

  It took a split second. "Shit, that was me. I was trying to get a lead on this Bailey Fowler business and I knew they'd been friends."

  "Oh. I thought maybe him and some woman..."

  "Absolutely not," I said. "In fact, he spent half the time showing me pictures of you and the kids."

  She colored faintly, tears welling. "That's sweet. I wish I could help. You seem awful nice."

  I took out my card and jotted down the number of the motel on the back. "Here's where I'll be for the next couple of days. If you think of anything, get in touch."

  "Are you coming to the funeral? It's tomorrow afternoon at the Baptist church. It should be a good turnout because everybody liked Tap."

  I had my doubts about that, but it was clearly something she needed to believe. "We'll see. I may be tied up, but I'll be there if I can." My recollection of Reverend Haws made attendance unlikely, but I couldn't rule it out. I'd been present at a number of funerals over the last several months, and I didn't think I could endure another. Organized religion was ruined
for me when I was five years old, subjected to a Sunday-school teacher with hairs sticking out of her nose and bad breath. Trust me to point that out. The Presbyterians had suggested the Vacation Bible School at the Congregational Church down the road. Since I'd already been expelled by the Methodists, my aunt was losing heart. Personally, I was looking forward to another flannel board. You could make Baby Jesus with some fuzzies on his back and stick him right up in the sky like a bird, then make him dive-bomb the manger.

  Joleen left the baby sidestepping his way down the length of the couch while she walked me to the door. The bell rang almost simultaneously with her opening it. Dwight Shales stood on the doorstep, looking as surprised as we were. His glance shifted from her face to mine and then back again. He nodded at Joleen. "Thought I'd stop by and see how you were."

  "Thanks, Mr. Shales. That's real nice of you. This is, unh..."

  I held my hand out. "Kinsey Millhone. We've met." We shook hands.

  "I remember," he said. "I just stopped by the motel, as a matter of fact. If you can hold on a minute, we can have a chat,"

  "Sure," I said. I stood there while he and Joleen talked briefly. From their conversation, I gathered that she'd been at the high school not that many years before.

  "I just lost my wife, and I know how it feels," he was saying. The authoritarian air I remembered was gone. His pain seemed so close to the surface, it made tears well up in Joleen's eyes again.

  "I appreciate that, Mr. Shales. I do. Mrs. Shales was a nice woman and I know she suffered something fierce. You want to come in? I can fix you some tea."

  He glanced at his watch. "I can't right this minute. I'm late as it is, but I'll stop by again. I wanted you to know we're all thinking of you over at the high school. Can I help you with anything? You have enough money?"

  Joleen seemed completely overwhelmed, nose turning rosy, her voice cracking when she spoke. "I'm all right. Mom and Daddy are coming up from Los Angeles tonight. I'll be fine as soon as they get here."

  "Well, you let us know if there's anything we can do. I can have one of the senior girls look after the kids tomorrow afternoon. Bob Haws said the services are scheduled for two."

  "I'd appreciate the help. I hadn't even thought about who'd be keeping the kids. Will you be at the funeral? Tap'd be awful glad."

  "Of course, I'll be there. He was a fine man and we were all proud of him."

  I followed him out to the street, where his car was parked. "I pulled school records on Jean Timberlake," he said. "If you want to stop by the office, you can see what we've got. You have a car? I can give you a lift."

  "I better take mine. It's back at the motel."

  "Hop in. I'll drop you off." "Are you sure? I don't want to hold you up."

  "Won't take a minute. I'm headed back in that direction anyway."

  He held the door for me and I got in, the two of us chatting inconsequentially during the brief ride back to the Ocean Street. I could have walked, but I was trying to ingratiate myself with the man in the hope that he might have personal recollections of his own to add to whatever data I found in Jean's file.

  Ann had returned from the hospital and I saw her peer out of the office window as we pulled up. She and Shales exchanged a smile and a wave and she disappeared.

  I stepped out of the car, leaning back toward the open window. "I have another errand to run and then I'll pop by."

  "Good. Meanwhile, I'll check and see if any of the staff have information to contribute."

  "Thanks," I said.

  As he took off, I turned to find Ann right behind me. She seemed surprised to see him pull away. "He's not coming in?"

  "I think he had to get back to the school. I just ran into him over at Joleen Granger's. How's your father?"

  Reluctantly, Ann's gaze flicked back to my face. "About what you'd expect. Cancer's spread to his lungs, liver, and spleen. They're saying now he probably has less than a month."

  "How's he taking it?"

  "Poorly. I thought he'd made his peace, but he seemed real upset. He wants to talk to you."

  My heart sank. It was the last thing I needed, a conversation with the doomed. "I'll try to get up there sometime this afternoon."

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  I sat in the vestibule outside Dwight Shales's office, variously picking my way through the papers in Jean Timberlake's school file and eavesdropping on an outraged senior girl who'd been caught in the restroom shampooing her hair. Apparently the drill in disciplinary matters was for the culprit to use the pay phone in the school office to notify the appropriate parent about the nature of the offense.

  "... Well, guy, Mom. How was I to know? I mean, big fuckin' deal," she said. "... Because I didn't have time! Guuuyyy... Well, nobody ever told me... It's a fuckin' free country. All I did was wash my hair!... I did noooot... I'm not smarting off! Yeah, well, you have a big mouth, too." Her tone shifted here from exasperation to extreme martyrdom, voice sliding up and down the scale. "Okaaay! I said, okay. Oh, right, Mom. God... Why'n't you ground me for life. Right. Oh, rilly, I'm sure. Fuck you, okay? You are such an asshole! I just hate you!!" She slammed the phone down resoundingly and burst noisily into tears.

  I suppressed a temptation to peer around the corner at her. I could hear the low murmur of a fellow conspirator.

  "God, Jennifer, that is just so unfair," the second girl said.

  Jennifer was sobbing inconsolably. "She is such a bitch. I hate her fuckin' guts..."

  I tried to picture myself at her age, talking to my aunt like that. I'd have had to take out a loan for the ensuing dental work.

  I leafed through Jean's Scholastic Aptitude Test scores, attendance records, the written comments her teachers had added from time to time. With the weeping in the background, it was almost like having Jean Timberlake's ghost looking on. She certainly seemed to have had her share of grief in high school. Tardiness, demerits, detention, parent-teacher conferences scheduled and then canceled when Mrs. Timberlake failed to show. There were repeated notes from sessions with first one and then another of the four school counselors, Ann Fowler being one. Jean had spent a large part of her junior year consigned to Mr. Shales's office, sitting on the bench, perhaps sullenly, perhaps with the total self-possession she seemed to display in the few yearbook photographs I'd seen. Maybe she'd sat there and recollected, in tranquility, the lewd sexual experiments she'd conducted with the boys in the privacy of parked cars. Or maybe she'd flirted with one of the senior honors students manning the main desk. From the moment she reached puberty, her grade point average had slid steadily downward despite the contradictory evidence of her IQ and past grades. I could practically feel the heat of noxious hormones seeping through the pages, the drama, confusion, finally the secrecy. Her confidences in the school nurse ceased abruptly. Where Mrs. Berringer had jotted down folksy notes about cramps and heavy periods, advising a consultation with the family physician, there was suddenly concern about the girl's mounting absenteeism. Jean's problems didn't go unnoticed or unremarked. To the credit of the faculty, a general alarm seemed to sound. From the paper trail left behind, it looked as if every effort had been made to bring her back from the brink. Then, on November 5, someone had noted in dark blue angular ink that the girl was deceased. The word was underlined once, and after that, the page was blank. "Is that going to help?"

  I jumped. Dwight Shales had emerged from his inner office and he stood now in the door. The weeping girl was gone, and I could hear the tramp of footsteps as the students passed between classes. "You scared me," I said, patting myself on the chest. "Sorry. Come into the office. I've got a conference scheduled at two, but we can talk till then. Bring the file."

  I gathered up Jean's records and followed him in.

  "Have a seat," he said.

  His manner had changed. The easygoing man I'd seen earlier had disappeared. Now he seemed guarded, careful of his words, all business – slightly curt, as if twenty years of dealing with unruly teenagers ha
d soured him on everyone. I suspected his manner tended toward the autocratic anyway, his tone edged with combativeness. He was used to being in charge. On the surface, he was attractive, but his good looks were posted with warning signs. His body was trim. He had the build and carriage of a former military type, accustomed to operating under fire. If he was a sportsman, I'd peg him as an expert in trap and skeet shooting. His games would be handball, poker, and chess. If he ran, he'd feel compelled to lower his finish by a few seconds each time out. Maybe once he'd been open, vulnerable or soft, but he was shut down now, and the only evidence I'd seen of any warmth at all was in his dealings with Joleen. Apparently his wife's death had ruptured the bounds of his self-control. In matters of mourning, he could still reach out.

  I took a seat, placing the fat, dog-eared manila folder on the desk in front of me. I hadn't found anything startling, but I'd made a few notes. Her former address. Birth date, social security number, the bare bones of data made meaningless by her death. "What did you think of her?" I asked him.

  "She was a tough little nut. I'll tell you that."

  "So I gathered. It looks like she spent half her time in detention."

  "At least that. What made it frustrating – for me, at any rate, and you're welcome to talk to some of the other teachers about this – is that she was a very appealing kid. Smart, soft-spoken, friendly – with adults, at any rate. I can't say she was well liked among her classmates, but she was pleasant to the staff. You'd sit her down to have a chat and you'd think you were getting through. She'd nod and agree with you, make all the proper noises, and then she'd turn around and do exactly what she'd been reprimanded for in the first place."