F is for FUGITIVE Page 8

  Royce refused to see anyone, but Ori entertained from her bed, repeating endlessly the circumstances under which she’d heard the news, what she’d first thought, when the facts had finally penetrated, and how she’d commenced to howl with misery until the doctor sedated her. Whatever Tap Granger’s fate or her son’s fugitive status, she experienced events as peripheral to “The Ori Fowler Show,” in which she starred. Before I had a chance to slip out of the room, the minister asked us to join him in a word of prayer. I have to confess, I’ve never been taught proper prayer etiquette. As far as I can tell, it consists of folded hands, solemnly bowed heads, and no peeking at the other supplicants. I don’t object to religious practices, per se. I’m just not crazy about having someone else inflict their beliefs on me. Whenever Jehovah’s Witnesses appear at my door, I always ask for their addresses first thing, assuring them that I’ll be around later in the week to plague them with my views.

  While the minister interceded with the Lord in Bailey Fowler’s behalf, I absented myself mentally, using the time to study his wife. June Haws was in her fifties, no more than five feet tall and, like many women in her weight class, destined for a sedentary life. Naked, she was probably dead white and dimpled with fat. She wore white cotton gloves with some sort of amber-staining ointment visible at the wrist. With her face blocked out, hers were the kind of limbs one might see in a medical journal, illustrative of particularly scabrous outbreaks of impetigo and eczema.

  When Reverend Haws’s interminable prayer had come to a close, Ann excused herself and went into the kitchen. It was clear that the appearance of servitude on her part was actually a means of escaping whenever she could. I followed her and, in the guise of being helpful, began to set out cups and saucers, arranging Pepperidge Farm cookies on plates lined with paper doilies while she hauled out the big stainless-steel coffee urn that usually sat in the office. On the kitchen counter, I could see a tuna casserole with crushed potato chips on top, a ground beef and noodle bake, and two Jell-O molds (one cherry with fruit cocktail, one lime with grated carrots), which Ann asked me to refrigerate. It had only been an hour and a half since Bailey fled the courthouse in a blaze of gunfire. I didn’t think gelatin set up that fast, but these Christian ladies probably knew tricks with ice cubes that would render salads and desserts in record time for just such occasions. I pictured a section in the ladies’ auxiliary church cookbook for Sudden Death Quick Snacks… using ingredients one could keep on the pantry shelf in the event of tragedy.

  “What can I do to help?” June Haws asked from the kitchen door. With her cotton gloves, she looked like a pallbearer, possibly for someone who had died recently from the same skin disease. I moved a plate of cookies just out of range and pulled a chair out so she could have a seat.

  “Oh, not for me, hon,” she said. “I never sit. Why don’t you let me take over, Ann, and you can get off your feet.”

  “We’re doing fine,” Ann said. “If you can keep Mother’s mind off Bailey, that’s all the help we need.”

  “Haws is reading Scriptures with her even as we speak. I can’t believe what that woman’s been through. It’s enough to break your heart. How’s your daddy doing? Is he all right?”

  “Well, it’s been a shock, of course.”

  “Of course it has. That poor man.” She looked over at me. “I’m June Haws. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  Ann broke in. “I’m sorry, June. This is Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective Pop hired to help us out.”

  “Private detective?” she said, with disbelief. “I didn’t think there was such a thing, except on television shows.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m afraid the work we do isn’t quite that thrilling.”

  “Well, I hope not. All those gun battles and car chases? It’s enough to make my blood run cold! It doesn’t seem like a fit occupation for a nice girl like you.”

  “I’m not that nice,” I said modestly.

  She laughed, mistaking this for a joke. I avoided any further interaction by picking up a cookie plate. “Let me just take these on in,” I murmured, moving toward the other room.

  Once in the hallway, I slowed my pace, caught between Bible readings in the one room and relentless platitudes in the other. I hesitated in the doorway. The high school principal, Dwight Shales, had appeared while I was gone, but he was deep in conversation with Mrs. Emma and didn’t seem to notice me. I eased into the living room where I handed the cookie plate to Mrs. Maude, then excused myself again and headed toward the office. Reverend Haws was intoning an alarming passage from the Old Testament full of besiegedness, pestilence, consuming locusts, and distress. Ori’s lot must have seemed pretty tame by comparison, which was probably the point.

  I went up to my room. It was almost noon and my guess was the assembled would hang around for a hot lunch. With luck, I could slip down the outside stairs and reach my car before anybody realized I was gone. I washed my face and ran a comb through my hair. I had my jacket over my arms and a hand on the doorknob when somebody knocked. For a moment I flashed on the image of Dwight Shales. Maybe he’d gotten the okay to talk to me. I opened the door.

  Reverend Haws was standing in the corridor. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Ann thought you’d probably come up here to your room. I didn’t have an opportunity to introduce myself. I’m Robert Haws of the Floral Reach Baptist Church.”

  “Hi, how are you?”

  “I’m just fine. My wife, June, was telling me what a nice chat she had with you a short while ago. She suggested you might like to join us for Bible study over at the church tonight.”

  “How nice,” I said. “Actually, I’m not sure where I’ll be tonight, but I appreciate the invitation.” I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I was mimicking the warm, folksy tone they all used with one another.

  Like his wife, Reverend Haws appeared to be in his fifties, but aging better than she was, I thought. He was round-faced, handsome in a Goody-Two-Shoes sort of way: bifocals with wire frames, sandy hair streaked with gray, cut full (with just the faintest suggestion of styling mousse). He was wearing a business suit in a muted glen plaid and a black shirt with a clerical collar that seemed an affectation for a Protestant. I didn’t think Baptists wore things like that. He had all the easy charm of someone who spent his entire adult life on the receiving end of pious compliments.

  We shook hands. He held on to mine and gave it a pat, making lots of Christian eye contact. “I understand you’re from Santa Teresa. I wonder if you know Millard Alston from the Baptist church there in Colgate. He and I were seminarians together. I hate to tell you how long ago that’s been.”

  I extracted my hand from his moist grip, smiling pleasantly. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. Of course, I don’t have much occasion to be out in that direction.”

  “What’s your congregation? I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re an ornery Methodist.” He said this with a laugh, just to show what a wacky sense of humor he had.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  He peered toward the room behind me. “Your husband traveling with you?”

  “Uh, no. Actually he’s not.” I glanced at my watch. “Oh golly. I’m late.” The “golly” rather stuck in my throat, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

  He put his hands in his pants pockets, subtly adjusting himself. “I hate to see you run off so soon. If you’re in Floral Beach come Sunday, maybe you can make it to the eleven-o’clock service and then join us for lunch. June doesn’t cook anymore because of her condition, but we’d enjoy having you as our guest at the Apple Farm Restaurant.”

  “Oh gee. I wish I could, but I’m not sure I’ll be here for the weekend. Maybe another time.”

  “Well, you’re a tough little gal to pin down,” he said. His manner was a trifle irritated and I had to guess he was unaccustomed to having his unctuous overtures rebuffed.

  “I sure am,” I said. I put on my jacket as I moved out into the corridor. R
everend Haws stepped aside, but he was still standing closer to me than I would have liked. I pulled the door shut behind me, making sure it was locked. I walked toward the stairs and he followed me.

  “Sorry to be in such a rush, but I have an appointment.” I’d cut the warm, folksy tone to a minimum.

  “I’ll let you get on your way, then.” The last I saw of him, he was standing at the head of the exterior stairs, looking down at me with a chilly gaze that contradicted his surface benevolence. I started my car and then waited in the parking slot until I’d seen him walk by, returning to the Fowlers. I didn’t like the idea of his being anywhere near my room if I was off the premises.

  I drove half a mile along the two-lane access road that connected Floral Beach to the highway, another mile due north. I reached the entrance to the Eucalyptus Mineral Hot Springs and turned into the parking lot. The brochure in the motel office indicated that the sulfur-based springs had been discovered in the late 1800s by two men drilling for oil. Instead of the intended rigs, a spa was built, serving as a therapeutic center for ailing Californians who arrived by train, alighting at the tiny station just across the road. A staff of doctors and nurses attended the afflicted, offering cures that included mud baths, nostrums, herbal treatments, and hydroelectric therapy. The facility flourished briefly and then fell into disuse until the 1930s, when the present hotel was constructed on the site. A second incarnation occurred in the early seventies when spas became fashionable again. Now, in addition to the fifty or so hot tubs that dotted the hillside under the oak and eucalyptus trees, there were tennis courts, a heated pool, and aerobics classes available, along with a full program of facials, massage, yoga instruction, and nutritional counseling.

  The hotel itself was a two-story affair, a curious testament to thirties architecture, art deco Spanish, complete with turrets, sensuously rounded corners, and walls of block glass. I approached the office by way of a covered walk, the air chilled by deep shade unrelieved by sunlight. At close range, the building’s stucco exterior showed bulging cracks that snaked up from the foundations to the terracotta roof tiles that had aged to the color of cinnamon. The sulfurous aroma of the mineral springs blended dankly with the smell of wet leaves. There was the suggestion of subtle leakages, something permeating the soil, and I wondered if, later, drums of poisonous wastes would be excavated from the spot.

  I took a quick detour, climbing a set of steep wooden stairs that cut up along the hill behind the hotel. There were gazebos at intervals, each sheltering a hot tub sunk into a wooden platform. Weathered wooden fences were strategically placed to shield the bathers from public view. Each alcove had a name, perhaps to facilitate some scheduling procedure in the office down below. I passed “Serenity,”

  “Meditation,”

  “Sunset,” and “Peace,” uncomfortably aware of how similar the names were to the “sleep rooms” in certain funeral homes of my acquaintance. Two of the tubs were empty, littered with fallen leaves. One had an opaque plastic cover lying on the surface of the water like a skin. I picked my way down the steps again, thankful that I wasn’t in the market for a hot soak.

  At the main building, I pushed through glass doors into the reception area. The lobby seemed more inviting, but it still had the feel of a YWCA in need of funds. The floors were a mosaic of black and white tiles, the smell of PineSol suggesting a recent swabbing with a wet mop. From the far reaches of the interior, I could hear the hollow echoes of an indoor pool where a woman with a German accent called out authoritatively, “Kick! Resist! Kick! Resist!” Her commands were punctuated by a torpid splashing that called to mind the clumsy mating of water buffalo.

  “May I help you?”

  The receptionist had emerged from a small office behind me. She was tall, big-boned, one of those women who probably shopped in the “full figured” department of women’s clothing stores. She must have been in her late forties, with white-blond hair, white lashes, and pale, unblemished skin. Her hands and feet were large, and the shoes she wore were the prison-matron-lace-up sort.

  I handed her my business card, introducing myself. “I’m looking for someone who might remember Jean Timberlake.”

  She kept her eyes pinned on my face, her expression blank. “You’ll want to talk to my husband, Dr. Dunne. Unfortunately, he’s away.”

  “Can you tell me when he’s expected back?”

  “I’m not certain. If you leave a number, I can have him call when he returns.”

  We locked eyes. Hers were the stony gray of winter skies before snow. “What about you?” I said. “Did you know the girl yourself?”

  There was a pause. Then, carefully, “I knew who she was.”

  “I understand she was working here at the time of her death.”

  “I don’t think this is something we should discuss” ��� she glanced down at the card ��� “Miss Millhone.”

  “Is there some problem?”

  “If you’ll tell me how to reach you, I’ll have my husband get in touch.”

  “Room twenty-two at the Ocean Street Motel in ���”

  “I know where it is. I’m sure he’ll call if he has time.”

  “Wonderful. That way we won’t have to bother about subpoenas.” I was bluffing, of course, and she might have guessed as much, but I did enjoy the pale wash of color that suffused her cheeks. “I’ll check back if I don’t hear from him,” I said.

  It wasn’t until I reached the car again that I remembered the owners mentioned in the brochure I’d seen. Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Dunne had bought the hotel the same year Jean Timberlake died.

  Chapter 10

  *

  It was 12:35 when I swung back around to the main street of Floral Beach and parked my car out in front of Pearl’s Pool Hall. Weekday business hours were listed as 11:00 A.M. to 2:00 A.M. The door stood open. Last night’s air tumbled out in a sluggish breeze that smelled of beer spills and cigarettes. The interior was stuffy, slightly warmer than the ocean-chilled temperature outside. I caught sight of Daisy at the back door, hauling out a massive plastic sack of trash. She gave me a noncommittal look, but I sensed that her mood was dark. I took a seat at the bar. I was the only customer at that hour. Empty, the place seemed even more drab than it had the night before. The floors had been swept and I could see peanut shells and cigarette butts in a heap near the broom, waiting to be nudged into the dustpan propped nearby. The back door banged shut and Daisy reappeared, wiping her hands on the toweling she’d tucked in her belt. She approached warily, her gaze not quite meeting mine. “How’s the detective work?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t identify myself last night.”

  “What’s it to me? I don’t give a damn who you are.”

  “Maybe not, but I wasn’t quite straight with Tap and I feel bad about that.” “You look real tore up.”

  I shrugged. “I know it sounds lame, but it’s the truth. You thought I was hustling him, and in a way, I was.”

  She said nothing. She stood and stared at me. After a while she said, “You want a Co’-Cola? I’m having one.”

  I nodded, watching as she picked up a couple of Mason jars and filled them from the hose dispenser under the bar. She set mine in front of me. “Thanks.”

  “I hear by the grapevine Royce hired you,” she said. “What’d he do that for?”

  “He’s hoping to have Bailey cleared of the murder charge.”

  “He’ll have a hell of a time after what happened this morning. If Bailey’s innocent like he claims, why take off?”

  “People get impulsive under pressure. When I talked to him at the jail, he seemed pretty desperate. Maybe when Tap showed up, he saw a way out.”

  Daisy’s tone was contemptuous. “Kid never did have a lick of sense.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “What about Royce? How’s he doing?”

  “Not that well. He went right to bed. A lot of people are over there with Ori.”

  “I don’t have much use for her,” Da
isy said. “Anybody heard from Bailey?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  She busied herself behind the bar, running a sinkful of hot soapy water and a second sinkful of rinse water. She began to wash Mason jars left over from the night before, her motions automatic as she ran through the sequence, setting clean jars to drain on a towel to the right. “What’d you want with Tap?”

  “I was curious what he had to say about Jean Timber lake.”

  “I heard you askin’ him about the stickups them two pulled.”

  “I was interested in whether his version would match Bailey’s.”

  “Did it?”

  “More or less,” I said. I studied her as she worked, wondering why she was suddenly so interested. I wasn’t about to mention the $42,000 Tap claimed had disappeared. “Who called him here last night? Did you recognize the voice?”

  “Some man. Not anyone I knew right off. Might have been someone I’d talked to before, but I couldn’t say for sure. There was something queer about the whole conversation,” she remarked. “You think it was related to the shooting?”

  “It almost had to be.”

  “That’s what I think, too, the way he tore out of here. I’d be willing to swear it wasn’t Bailey, though.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “He wouldn’t have been permitted to use the jail phone at that hour and he couldn’t have met with Tap in any event. What made the call seem so queer?”

  “Odd voice. Deep. And the speech was kind of drug out, like someone who’d had a stroke.”

  “Like a speech impediment?”

  “Maybe. I’d have to think about that some. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” She was silent for a moment and then shook her head, shifting the subject. “Tap’s wife, Joleen, is who I feel sorry for. Have you talked to her?”