Kate Wilhelm - Barbara Holloway 09 Read online

  “How do you figure in?” Frank demanded.

  Barbara was reaching for his phone. “I’ll give Martin a call and get him to hold a back booth for us. I don’t want you futz-ing around in the kitchen while I tell you about it.” She believed cooking took superhuman concentration, and she wanted his full attention when she told him the predicament Meg presented.

  Later, waiting for shrimp gumbo in a back booth at Martin’s Restaurant, Barbara told Frank about Meg’s visit. He did not say a word until she finished, then he cursed in a low undertone. Martin came with a tray and they were both silent while he chatted, placing the food on the table. He had beamed when they appeared. As big as a grizzly bear, black as a human being could be, he could have served as a bouncer if the need had ever arisen. He was an ex-NFL linebacker and looked it. And that night he had a bottle of Italian Soave. “I’ve been saving it for a special guest,” he said pouring it. “My treat, this one time only,” he added quickly when Frank started to protest.

  “That’s why we don’t come here more often,” Barbara said. “There go your profits for the week. We can’t bear so much responsibility.”

  Martin laughed. “Let me know how you like it,” he said, moving away.

  As he had done so often in the past, Frank wondered what on earth Barbara had done for Martin that had earned his undying devotion to her. He suspected that he would never find out.

  Barbara sipped the wine and closed her eyes, then sipped again. “I knew it would be good, but I never knew how good it could be,” she murmured. Then, between bites of gumbo she told him what she had been doing the rest of the day. “Bailey, for starters,” she said. Frank nodded. They both knew Bailey Novell was one of the best private investigators to be had.

  When she finished, he asked, “Did you believe Meg?”

  Barbara stopped the bite she had been about to take and put her fork down. “I want to believe her. We both said she’s deep, and she’s also sharp. She knows exactly what Wally was facing if Wilkins had pressed charges. At best the ruination of Wally’s career, at worst a long prison sentence, which she likens to a death sentence. And now she knows that when the boat is found, the decision could go either way. A bit of a mistake on Wally’s part, a practical joke gone bad, all forgiven, or a malicious, mean-spirited frame-up, initiated by Wilkins and intended to destroy Wally. Justification for murder possibly. Or,” she continued more slowly, “she suspects or knows that Wally took it and she, in trying to save his skin, might have made the problem worse. Or she might have knocked off Jay herself thinking no one would see her coming or going, only to come to believe a witness had been lurking about.” She finished off the wine in her glass and refilled it. “In other words, I haven’t got a clue about Meg yet.”

  “Fair enough,” Frank said. Then, soberly, he went on, “But I hope we agree that Meg is in possession of evidence that could be vital in finding a murderer. And you’re aware of the fact. Obstruction of justice can be a serious charge.”

  She nodded. She knew.

  Chapter 5

  Stephanie Breaux stood over her daughter, stroked her hair softly, and murmured, “Eve, wake up, darling. Please, wake up.”

  Eve did not stir. She was curled in a tight fetal position, her eyes squeezed shut in such a way it was impossible to tell if she was awake or sleeping. A light coverlet over her trembled now and then, the only sign of life she exhibited.

  She was twenty-three, her hair was as gossamer fine as the purest wheat-colored silk. It was hard to believe any adult human being could be rolled as tightly as the mound on the bed indicated. Stephanie spoke to her again, then turned and walked from the bedroom, every step leaden. She realized how tired she was when she caught the wall in the hallway to steady herself.

  More coffee wasn’t the answer; she was already jittery from two nights of too much coffee. She walked down the few steps to the lower level and on to the kitchen where she checked the wall clock against her watch. Eleven-thirty. Why didn’t Eric return her call? She had called her son at eleven and left a message on his voice mail at work. She kept moving, out to the patio to breathe deeply of the fresh air, trying to clear her head, to quell her rising tension.

  Ten minutes later her son arrived. She hurried to the door to admit him. “Mother, something — What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Eve,” she said. “She’s had a relapse.”

  “Evie? Where is she?” What he had come to tell his mother was forgotten.

  “In bed.”

  He ran past her, up the steps and down the hall. At Eve’s room he approached his sister and touched her hair gently, exactly as Stephanie had done. “Evie, it’s me, Eric. Want to go for a walk?” After a moment he stepped back and took in the scene with a swift glance. His mother had dragged in the rocking chair from her room, arranged pillows and a throw, and no doubt had tried to rest there while she maintained a vigil. She was gray with fatigue and worry. He decided his own news could bloody well wait.

  “When did it happen?” he asked, once they were downstairs again.

  “Saturday evening. I was working at my desk and she was on the exercise bike. When I came down I found her huddled on the patio floor.”

  He didn’t ask what had brought it about. They rarely found out. Eve could never tell them. She would have complete amnesia of the episode from before, during and for a day or two after; she always did. “Why didn’t you call me? Where’s Reggie?”

  “She took a long weekend. She’ll be back tonight sometime. And I thought maybe it was like the last time it happened. Eve slept sixteen hours and came out of it. I thought… It’s been two years! We thought it was over. She’s been so well.”

  Stephanie turned away. When she spoke again her voice was strained with the effort it was taking not to cry. “I called Dr. Mohrbeck this morning. He’ll get in touch with Cedar View and they’ll be expecting us. You’ll have to drive. I have her overnight bag in the car.”

  Eric nodded. “I’ll bring her down.” He hesitated. “Is she dressed?”

  “Just her gown. I changed her. She should be dry.” Her voice quavered and she stopped.

  Eric had seen the corner of the rubber sheet they used when Eve had a relapse. “Okay. I’ll put her slippers on her, and wrap her in the cover. Wait here.”

  Eric knew Eve would be easy enough to manage, but she would not move of her own volition, and she would not open her eyes, not until it was over. Looking at her, drawn up like a baby, he felt only tenderness toward his sick little sister. Six feet tall, finally after years of being lanky, all legs and arms, he was starting to fill out the long framework of his body. He felt massive next to Eve. His hair was thick, dark, like his mother’s, Eve’s was golden. A changeling in their midst, he sometimes thought, unlike mother, unlike father, altogether her own self.

  “Evie,” he said softly, “it’s time to go see Dr. Mohrbeck.” He put her slippers on her, drew her to her feet and wrapped a thin blanket around her. He didn’t try to pick her up, although he could have easily. She struggled if anyone tried to pick her up. Supporting her firmly around her waist, he led her down the stairs and out to the car where Stephanie was waiting.

  Stephanie sat in the backseat holding her daughter, and Eric drove the twenty miles to Cedar View. They did not talk on the way. They never spoke in front of Eve when she was having an episode. They didn’t know how much she heard or what it meant to her. And at the hospital, it would be routine, Stephanie thought dully. They would wheel Eve away and she would watch her out of sight. Paperwork, the comforting words, a nurse who would manage to be both cheerful and sympathetic. They would not want Stephanie to linger, they never did on the first day Blood tests, an intravenous drip installed… She closed her own eyes and stroked Eve’s fine hair.

  Later, returning to Eugene, Stephanie sat in the passenger seat and leaned back with her eyes closed. Eric glanced at her, starting to say something, changed his mind. It could wait.

  Back in the house, he went to the kitchen w
ith his mother. “Sit down. I’m going to scramble some eggs. Did you eat anything yesterday or this morning?”

  “A sandwich? Probably a sandwich. I don’t remember. I don’t think I was hungry.” Stephanie smiled faintly; she had a crooked little twist of her lip when she smiled.

  She sat at the table while he prepared scrambled eggs and made toast. When the food was ready, she found, to her surprise, that she was hungry Eric poured orange juice for himself and sat opposite her.

  He waited until she had finished, then said, “Mother, I have to tell you something, the reason I came over. I didn’t get your message, that wasn’t it. This morning a police officer came to the office to tell me that Dad was dead. She intended to come over here to notify you and Eve and I told her I’d do it.”

  Stephanie had raised a glass of milk to her lips. She put it down. “What did she say?” She stared at him, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Not much more than that. He was killed, murdered, Saturday night, they think. They didn’t want his immediate family to learn about it from television or the radio.”

  She stood up and went to the glass patio door where she stood with her back to him. “Do they know who did it?”

  “No, and I hope to God they never find out. The guy deserves a medal.”

  She wheeled about. “Eric! Don’t say such a thing.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead, Mother. I’m glad.” He waved his hand in a curious gesture he used. “Anyway, there will be reporters and people asking questions, wanting to talk to you and Eve. I’ve taken the week off. I’ll come over here and stay. The cop wanted to know if I know where Connie is. I don’t. Apparently they can’t locate her. Have you talked to her in the past few days?”

  She shook her head. “We were expecting her last Saturday, but she didn’t come, and she never called.”

  There were possibly half a dozen people Eve cared about. She loved her mother, and adored her big brother. She had become especially fond of Reggie, their tenant who was a companion for Eve on the days that Stephanie worked. And she had formed an attachment to, or even had come to love, her stepmother Connie. Her doctor and one of the therapists along the way made up the group.

  “Mother, you’re ready to drop. Go take a warm bath and pile up in bed for a few hours. I’ll be down here and you need some rest. The next few days are going to be hell.”

  Chapter 6

  Frank rarely brooded about past mistakes. His philosophy was to admit them, fix them if possible and, if not, live with whatever consequences there were. But he now thought it had been a mistake to bring Barbara into the Wally Lederer case. His intentions had been good, his instincts okay, but it had been a mistake. He had seen her growing restlessness and believed, even if she was dodging it, that part of the problem, a big part, was Darren Halvord. He was in love with her and wanted to get married. That much was obvious to anyone who had seen them together.

  Frank knew that Barbara would never discuss her personal life, especially her love life, and that neither she nor Darren would ever mention it if he proposed and she turned him down, but, by God, if she said yes, she’d have to let him know. No one would be happier about it than Frank.

  He thought Wally’s case would be a distraction, not a major all-involving one, but interesting enough to make her accept that her restlessness was not caused by any work burnout. What he had thought would be a little distraction had turned into a goddamn mess.

  Well, be damned careful what you wish for, Mr Buttinsky, he told himself Tuesday morning on his way to her office to be on hand when Bailey reported.

  Frank arrived at Barbara’s office minutes before Bailey who looked like someone he’d slip a dollar to if he passed him standing on a street corner. Bailey appeared more disreputable than usual that morning, with Band-Aids and red streaks on both hands, as if he had been brawling.

  “That Austin rambler,” he said, holding up his hands. “Hannah said it had to go or else I did. I took it out over the weekend.” Bailey tended prize-winning roses, but some of the shrub roses had overgrown their boundaries and it appeared that he had fought one to the secret rosebush graveyard.

  “Consider sympathy given and let’s get on with it,” Barbara said, showing no evidence of any sympathy whatsoever. They sat in the comfortable chairs around her table, and she did not bother with notes. As if to belie his appearance, Bailey produced meticulous written reports.

  “Right. Not much yet. Wilkins was hit in the head with a cut-glass pitcher. That, or a brass piece on a bar stool did him in. He hit it when he fell. Saturday night, no definite time yet. Housekeeper found him yesterday morning around ten. No sign of a breakin, security system up and running, television on but muted, nothing missing apparently. Wife still gone. She packed a suitcase, had an e-ticket on order to Roanoke, Virginia, and was a no-show on the Saturday morning of the previous week. No sign that she took a different flight. Wilkins drove her to the Portland airport, left her at the departure gate and took off. He reported her missing Sunday evening, but the cops didn’t take it seriously. They decided the lady wanted to get away for a while.” He spread his hands. “I don’t have much because they’re playing it close until they locate the widow Wilkins. At the moment it looks like she might have beaned him herself. Then, there’s the missing boat. But you know about that.”

  Barbara scowled at him. He scowled back. “I do what I can,” he said. It was not an apology. “When they clam up, that’s it. Two Wilkins kids. A son, Eric, twenty-six, a computer designer, Web designer, some kind of computer geek at the U of O. Gay, shares an apartment with a boyfriend. Daughter, Eve, twenty-three, a nut case, in and out of a private hospital down near Cottage Grove since she was about twelve. Schizophrenia. When she’s out she lives with her mother, the ex-wife, Stephanie Breaux. Partner in the women’s wear shop Gormandi and Breaux.”

  Barbara knew the shop. It had pricey clothes for, as their ads said, “Women on the go.”

  “No other kids in sight,” Bailey said.

  “What about the missing wife?” Barbara asked when Bailey helped himself to more coffee.

  “Interesting,” he said adding far too much sugar to his cup. “Connie Wilkins. She was widowed about three years ago. Married to David Laramie, the radio and television guy. He and their twelve-year-old son were killed by a Safeway truck on a trip to go skiing. She’s loaded. Laramie had money, and there was a big settlement, plus insurance, plus a big expensive house. Married Wilkins seventeen months ago, skipped out last week.” He consulted a notebook that he had not glanced at before. “He drove a powder-blue Buick, and she has a red Corvette, still in their garage. And that’s just about all I have so far.”

  “It may be more than we’ll need if Connie Wilkins turns out to be it,” Barbara said. “Not much more we can do until we see what develops.” She glanced at Frank, who nodded in agreement. Bailey was good at his work and he charged accordingly. There was no point in having him dig unless and until they had a specific charge and a real case.

  “I did scope out a little about Wilkins last night,” Bailey said. “His name struck a chord and I looked it up on the Web. About the time you were gone,” he said to Barbara, “and your dad was out at the McKenzie place, not paying much attention, I guess. Wilkins got involved in a lawsuit with a few customers who charged him with violation of truth in lending practices. They won. Shady credit deals, padding expenses, add-on costs that drove the prices up, things like that. I didn’t dig much, just the highlights.”

  Bailey’s sense of propriety had stepped in, Barbara realized. He had not been able to bring himself to say it was during the tumultuous year following her mother’s death. Neither she nor Frank had dealt with it very well; she had left the law practice, left the state, swearing never to return, and he had moved all the way out of town.

  Frank topped his own coffee. “I’ll get the details if we decide we need them,” he said, keeping his gaze on the coffee carafe. He looked stricken. It hit like this, with incre
dible stabbing intensity, he was thinking, the overwhelming sense of loss, the pain and grief. There had seemed nothing left to keep living for at the time. Life had become a burden he no longer wanted to bear until he had managed to get Barbara back home.

  “Well,” Barbara said, rising, forcing a briskness in her voice that she did not feel, “I guess that’s it for now. Tell your contact you really want the time of death as soon as the medical examiner makes his report, and then we’ll sit tight and see what happens.”

  Bailey drained his cup and stood up. “Hannah’s been complaining about the big bare spot in the shrubs, so I’ll be around the house for a day or so if you want me.” He saluted and ambled out.

  “I’ll give Meg a call and run out there,” Barbara said, going to her desk, keeping her voice as even as she could. “I think for now she should just sit tight and not utter a peep. Are you coming with me?”

  “What?” Frank shook himself slightly. “No. No. I’ll go on home. Plant those beans maybe and a hill of zucchini.” He looked uncertain as he spoke, then shook himself again. “Plant beans,” he said more firmly. “It’s going to be hot for a few days.”

  At the door he paused and glanced back at her. “Maybe you’d like a bite of dinner later?” He sounded almost shy.

  “I’d love it. Thanks.”

  Barbara could have told Meg what little she had learned over the phone, instead of making the trek out, but she wanted to see for herself how long the drive took, and how isolated their house was. A real problem, or at least something to consider, was whether a neighbor had seen Meg leaving or arriving home again Saturday night. And that could go either way. It might turn out to be a blessing if someone had seen her, or it could be a serious problem. It would depend on the time of Jay Wilkins’s death.