F is for FUGITIVE Page 19

  A woman in a white smock was placing a heart-shaped wreath on a stand. The wide lavender ribbon had “Resting In The Arms Of Jesus” written on it in a lavish gold script. I could see June Haws in the choir loft, rocking back and forth as she played the pipe organ with much working of the feet. She was playing a hymn that sounded like a tender moment in a vintage daytime soap, singing to herself in a voice with more tweeter than woofer. The bandages on her hands made her look like something newly risen from the dead. She stopped playing as I approached, and turned to look at me.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said.

  She put her hands in her lap. “That’s all right,” she said. There was something placid about her, despite the fact that the tincture of iodine was working its way up her arms. Was it spreading, this plague, this poison ivy of the soul?

  “I didn’t know you doubled as the organist.”

  “Ordinarily, I don’t, but Mrs. Emma’s sitting with Ann. Haws went over to the hospital to counsel Royce. I guess the doctors told him about Oribelle. Poor soul. A reaction to her medication, was it? That’s what we were told.”

  “Looks that way. They’ll have to wait for the lab reports to be sure.”

  “God love her heart,” she murmured, picking at the gauze wound around her right arm. She’d taken her gloves off so she could play. Her fingers were visible, sturdy and plain, the nails blunt-cut.

  I took the card out of my bag. “Did you talk to Shana Timberlake here a couple of days ago?”

  Her eyes flicked to the card and she shook her head.

  “Could your husband have met with her?”

  “You’ll have to ask him about that.”

  “We haven’t had a chance to talk about Jean Timberlake,” I remarked.

  “She was a very misguided girl. Pretty little thing, but I don’t believe she was saved.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Did you know her well?”

  She shook her head. Some sort of misery had clouded her eyes and I waited to see if she would speak of it. Apparently not.

  “She was a member of the youth group here, wasn’t she?”

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Haws?”

  “Well, Miss Millhone. You’re a mite early for the service, and I’m afraid you’re not dressed properly for church,” Bob Haws said from behind me.

  I turned. He was in the process of shrugging himself into a black robe. He wasn’t looking at his wife, but she seemed to shrink away from him. His face was bland, his eyes cold. I had a vivid flash of him stretched out across his desktop, Jean performing her volunteer work.

  “I guess I’ll have to miss the funeral,” I said. “How’s Royce?”

  “As well as can be expected. Would you like to step into the office? I’m sure I can help you with any information you might be pressing Mrs. Haws for.”

  Why not? I thought. This man gave me the creeps, but we were in a church in broad daylight with other people nearby. I followed him to his office. He closed the door. Reverend Haws’s ordinarily benevolent expression had already been replaced by something less compassionate. He stayed on his feet, moving around to the far side of his desk.

  I surveyed the place, taking my time about it. The walls were pine-paneled, the drapes a dusty-looking green. There was a dark green plastic couch, the big oak desk, a swivel chair, bookcases, various framed degrees, certificates, and biblical-looking parchments on the walls.

  “Royce asked me to deliver a message. He’s been trying to get in touch. He won’t be needing your services. If you’ll give me an itemized statement, I’ll see that you’re paid for the time you’ve put in.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait and hear it from him.”

  “He’s a sick man. Distraught. As his pastor, I’m authorized to dismiss you on the spot.”

  “Royce and I have a signed contract. You want to take a peek?”

  “I dislike sarcasm and I resent your attitude.”

  “I’m skeptical by nature. Sorry if that offends.”

  “Why don’t you state your case and leave the premises.”

  “I don’t have a ‘case’ to state at this point. I thought maybe your wife might be of help.”

  “She has nothing to do with this. Any help you get will have to come from me.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “You want to tell me about your meeting with Shana Timberlake?”

  “Sorry. I never met with Mrs. Timberlake.”

  “What do you think this means, then?” I said. I held the card up, making sure the penned message was visible.

  “I assure you I have no idea.” He busied himself, needlessly straightening some papers on his desk. “Will there be anything else?”

  “I did hear a rumor about you and Jean Timberlake. Maybe we should discuss that as long as I’m here.”

  “Any rumor you may have heard would be difficult to substantiate after all this time, don’t you think?”

  “I like difficulty. It’s what makes my job fun. Don’t you want to know what the rumor is?”

  “I have no interest whatever.”

  “Ah well,” I said. “Perhaps another time. Most people are curious when gossip like this circulates. I’m glad to hear it doesn’t trouble you.”

  “I don’t take gossip seriously. I’m surprised you do.” He gave me a chilly smile, adjusting his shirt cuffs under the wide sleeves of the robe. “Now, I think you’ve taken up enough of my time. I have a funeral to conduct and I’d like to have time alone to pray.”

  I moved to the door and opened it, turning casually. “There was a witness, of course.”

  “A witness?”

  “You know, somebody who sees somebody else do something naughty.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow. A witness to what?”

  I fanned the air with a loose fist, using a hand gesture he seemed to grasp right away.

  His smile was losing wattage as I closed the door behind me.

  Outside, the air seemed mercifully warm. I got in my car and sat for a few minutes. I leafed through my notes, looking for unturned stones. I don’t even know what I was hoping to find. I reviewed the information I’d jotted down when I went through Jean Timberlake’s school records. She’d lived on Palm then, just around the corner from where I sat. I craned around in the seat, wondering if it was worth it to go have a look. Oh hell, why not? In lieu of hard facts, I might as well hope for a psychic flash.

  I started the VW and headed for the old Timberlake address. It was only one block down, so I could have left the car where it was, but I thought I’d better free up a parking space for the hearse. The building was on the left, two stories of shabby, pale green stucco jammed up against a steep embankment.

  As I approached, I realized there was nothing much to see. The building was abandoned, the windows boarded up. On the left, a wooden staircase angled up to the second floor, where a balcony circled the perimeter. I climbed the stairs. The Timberlakes had lived in number 6, in the shadow of the hill. The whole place looked dreary. The front door of their apartment had a perfect round hole where the knob should have been. I pushed the door open. The veneer had been splintered, leaving stalagmites of lighter wood showing along the bottom edge.

  The windows here were still intact, but so grimy that they might as well have been boarded up. The incoming light was filtered by dust. Soot had settled on the linoleum floors. The kitchen counters were warped, the cabinet doors hanging by their hinges. Mouse pellets suggested recent occupancy. There was only one bedroom. The back door opened off this bedroom onto the rear of the building, where the balcony connected to a clumsy stairway anchored to the side of the hill. I looked up. The sheer sides of the dirt embankment were eroded. Dense vines spilled over the lip of the hill maybe thirty feet above. Up there, at the top, I caught a glimpse of a private residence that boasted a spectacular view of the town, with the ocean stretching off to the left and a gentle hill on the right.

  I returned to the apartment, trying to roll back the yea
rs in my mind. Once this place had been furnished, not grandly perhaps, but with an eye to modest comfort. From gouges in the floor, I could guess where the couch had been. I suspected they’d used the dining ell as a sleeping alcove, and I wondered which of them had slept there. Shana had mentioned Jean’s sneaking out at night.

  I passed through the bedroom to the back door and studied the rear stairs, letting my eye follow the line of ascent. She might have used these, climbing up to the street above, where her various boyfriends could have picked her up and dropped her off again. I tested the crude wooden handrail, which was flimsily constructed and loose after years of disuse. The risers were unnaturally steep and it made climbing hazardous. Many of the balusters were gone.

  I trudged upward, huffing and puffing my way to the top. A chain-link fence ran along the crest of the embankment. There was no gate now, but there might have been at one time. Carefully I turned my head, looking back over the neighborhood from above the rooftops. The view was heady ��� treetops at my feet, the town spread out below ��� creating a mild vertigo. A parked car was about the size of a bar of soap.

  I studied the house in front of me, a two-story frame-and-glass structure with a weathered exterior. The yard was immaculate and beautifully landscaped, complete with a swimming pool, decking, a hot tub, a Brown-Jordan glass-topped table and chairs. Situated anyplace else in town, the property would have required shielding shrubs for privacy. Up here, the owners could enjoy an unobstructed 180-degree view.

  I struck off to the right, clinging to the fence as I made my way along the narrow path that skirted the property. When I reached the lot line on the right, I followed the fence, which defined the vacant lot next door. The street beyond was the last stretch of a cul-de-sac, with only one other house in sight. As far as I’d seen, this was Floral Beach’s only classy neighborhood.

  I approached the house from the front and rang the bell. I turned and stared out at the street. Up here on the hill, the sun beat down unmercifully on the chaparral. There were very few trees and there was very little to cut the wind. The ocean was visible perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

  I wondered if the fog stretched this far; could be desolate in its way. I rang the bell again, but there was apparently no one home. Now what?

  The word “Sanctuary” was nagging at me. I’d assumed it meant the church, but there was another possibility. The hot tubs up at the mineral springs all had names like that. Maybe it was time for another visit with the Dunnes.

  Chapter 23

  *

  The parking lot at the mineral springs was empty except for two service trucks, one from a pool company and the other a high-sided pickup with gardening tools visible in the bed. I could hear the whine of a wood chipper somewhere on the property, and I assumed brush was being cleared. I approached the spa from the rear, as I had on my first visit to the place.

  The reception area was quiet and there was no one at the desk. Maybe everyone was off at Tap’s funeral. I checked the bulletin board. The schedule of classes showed nothing for Friday afternoons. I was not above nosing around on my own as long as I was there, but I had an uneasy feeling I might run into Elva Dunne.

  I poked my head out into the corridor, hoping to spot a stairway that would lead to the hotel lobby above. There didn’t seem to be anyone around at all. Well, gee whiz, folks, what was I supposed to do? Casually, I eased behind the desk. Taped to the counter on the right was a plot map of all the hot tubs on the hill. Curling lines represented the winding paths between the spas. A band across the top of the map was marked as a fire lane. I let my fingers do the walking, past “Peace,”

  “Serenity,”

  “Tranquillity,” and “Composure.” A real snore, this place. “Sanctuary” was a little two-person tub located way up on the far corner of the hill. According to the schedule lying open on the desk, no one was booked into “Sanctuary” on Wednesday afternoon, or on any day after that. I flipped back a week. Nothing. My guess was that Shana’s rendezvous was 2:00 A.M. instead of P.M. and probably not officially listed anyplace. I did a quick search of the drawers, which yielded nothing of significance. A cardboard box on the counter, labeled “Lost & Found,” contained a silver bracelet, a plastic hairbrush, a set of car keys, and a fountain pen. I checked the pigeonholes to the left and then felt myself do a double take. The car keys in the lost-and-found box had a big metal T attached to the key ring. Shana’s.

  I heard footsteps in the corridor. I did a quick tippy-toe out from behind the desk. I grabbed the door open and turned, timing my entrance so it looked like I was just arriving as Elva and Joe Dunne walked into the reception area. Elva’s face went blank when she caught sight of me. I pulled the card out of my handbag. Dr. Dunne seemed to know what it was right away. He patted her arm and murmured something, probably letting her know he’d take care of any dealings either of them might have to have with me. She continued on into the little side office. Dr. Dunne took me by the elbow and steered me out the door. I hadn’t really wanted to go in that direction.

  “This is not a good idea,” he was murmuring in my left ear. He still held my arm, trotting me toward the parking lot.

  “I thought this was your day at the clinic down in Los Angeles.”

  “I had to do a great deal of talking to persuade Mrs. Dunne not to file assault charges against you,” he said, apropos of nothing. Or was it meant to be a threat?

  “Let her go for it,” I said. “Make sure she does it before my knuckle heals. And while we’re at it, let’s have the cops take a look at this.” I pulled my sleeve up far enough for him to see the pattern of bruises left by Madame’s tennis serve. I jerked my arm out of his grasp and held the card up. “Want to talk about this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s the card you sent Shana Timberlake.”

  He shook his head. “I never saw that in my life.”

  “Excuse my language, Doctor, but that’s a fuckin’ fib. You wrote her last week when you were down in L.A. You must have heard about Bailey’s arrest and thought the two of you better have a chat. What’s the deal? Can’t you just pick the phone up and call your lady love?”

  “Please lower your voice.”

  When we reached the parking lot, he glanced back at the building. I followed his gaze, catching sight of his wife peering at us through the office window. She realized we’d spotted her, and withdrew. Dr. Dunne opened my car door on the driver’s side as though to usher me in. His manner was uneasy and his eyes kept shifting to the building behind us. I pictured Mrs. Dunne belly-crawling through the bushes with a knife between her teeth.

  “My wife is a paranoid schizophrenic. She’s violent.”

  “I’ll say! So what?”

  “She handles all the books. If she found I’d put a call through to Shana, she’d… well, I don’t know what she’d do.”

  “I’ll bet I could guess. Maybe she was jealous of Jean and wrapped a belt around her neck.”

  His ruddy complexion glowed pinker from within, as if a bulb had gone on behind his face. Perspiration was collecting in the crevices in his neck. “She would never do such a thing,” he said. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped at his forehead.

  “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?