Desperate Measures (18 page)

Their food arrived, and Alan came in to eat with them. No one talked business as they ate; it would have been sacrilegious to discuss anything except food: tender green beans, asparagus in a lemon sauce, pork loin with more than a hint of garlic in a wine sauce, tiny new potatoes….

“You should take up lunch,” Frank commented, watching Barbara help herself to more of everything. “Good habit to get into, lunch.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I'll have to walk an hour to compensate for food like this. If I ate this way through the whole day, all I'd have time for would be meals and exercise.”

“No mountain climbing over the weekend?” Frank asked.

“Nope. Law library all weekend.” She looked at him quickly, as if regretting her words, and there it was back between them. She was involved in something she wouldn't talk about. A careful neutral expression settled on Frank's face. And she said, “Now I am going to take a walk. Start the digestive juices flowing.”

Alan started to rise and she waved him down again. “Finish eating. Your job is to keep an eye on the house and Dad. The park's full of people this time of day, and I'll be back before dark.”

It didn't leave her a lot of time, she reflected a few minutes later, walking on the bike trail by the river. It was eight o'clock already, but the park was full of people.

She walked faster as an idea began to take shape, and presently she turned and retraced her steps to Frank's house. It was after nine and, to her regret, he looked worried.

“I'll have coffee now,” she said, “and then tell you an idea I had.”

At the dinette table she said, “We could stake out the house and nab him if he shows up again, but chances are he'll just wait for the family to take things away and go after it in Medford, or wait for that sale you mentioned and get what he's after then. What if he sees a van with an antique dealer's name, someone who buys collectibles, books, art, things of that sort? He might want to enter at night and retrieve his own collectible before everything is boxed up and put some place with real security.”

Frank shook his head. “I don't want to bring in a dealer. That might even put someone in danger.”

“Bailey could arrange it,” she said. “One of his people could become a dealer for a few hours.”

“You'd still need a stakeout at the house.”

“I know,” she said. “I think the guy is an opportunist. Maybe if he sees a dealer's van, he'll move again. If not, then it's just money, Dad.”

“Right, and if it comes out of Hilde's estate, I'll have to account for it.” He scowled, then nodded. “I surely do not want him to follow someone down to Medford to pick up whatever he's after.” Then he said, “I'll give Bailey a call. Maybe someone should stay in the house overnight, just in case he doesn't wait for your little play to be staged.”

She finished her coffee, then poured another cup while he called Bailey and explained what they wanted. “Done,” he said. “You planning to stay up all night?” He was frowning at her coffee.

“Work to do,” she said. She wanted to browse in Frank's law library. Also she had not had time to make notes yet or to examine the items she had brought home from the school, which included another telephone/address book. “Okay if I use your study?”

“Help yourself. I'm going to soak again and then go to bed.”

At ten-thirty Alan came to the study door, tapped, then opened it and entered. “Bailey's on the phone,” he said, and handed her his cell phone.

“What's up?” she asked Bailey.

“Your dad in bed?” Bailey asked.

“Yes. Just tell me.”

“We're too late at the Franz house. Someone broke a back window and got in. Chris just called me. Do we bring in the police?”

“Shit!” She thought a moment, then said, “No police yet. We'll discover the break-in in the morning. Is the house a mess?”

“Nope. Looks like your guy went in and got what he was after and hightailed it out again. Neat and slick.”

“Tell Chris to stay put, and in the morning I'll meet you there at eight.”

After Alan left with his cell phone, she sat at Frank's desk, drumming her fingers. Under her breath she muttered, “Okay, your round, Mr. Wonderful.” Neat and slick, she thought, also opportunistic and fast on his feet. And, so far at least, very lucky.

16

The following day
Barbara and Shelley were in Barbara's office, glum and dissatisfied.

“The cops had it all figured out. A neighborhood kid out rattling doorknobs. You know, if one gives, you walk in and pick up whatever you want and walk out. He got spooked when he saw Dad, lashed out at him, and beat it, then came back late at night. Not a pro; he would have taken everything not nailed down. The cops think he was looking for cash.”

“Did anyone bring up a possible man in her life?” Shelley asked.

“Dad did. Hoggarth said, So what? They are satisfied with the cause of death, and if she had a fellow, it's none of his business.”

Barbara scowled at the wall. ‘'I'm worried about Alex,” she said. “He's getting cabin fever. We can't keep him a prisoner at Will's place much longer. I wonder if we shouldn't lease a car for him. At least he'd be able to get out and hike somewhere.”

“Having his own car will help,” Shelley said. “I can take care of that. Get it in my name. Want me to give him a call and clear it with him?”

Barbara hesitated, a little uneasy, then nodded. “Not a Jaguar,” she said. “Not red, not a sporty little thing. Something inconspicuous. Okay?”

Shelley laughed. “I'll ask him his preference.”

“Well, I'm off. I told Dad I'd pick him up at four.”

Frank's “nephew” Herbert had arrived that morning in a dilapidated, rusty, rattling pickup truck; he was a big, jovial man with a beer belly, florid complexion, twinkling blue eyes, and a fierce Texas accent, dressed in baggy jeans, cowboy boots, and a stained cowboy hat. He had greeted Frank as Uncle, and Barbara as Cuz. If he tried to hug her, Barbara had thought, a swift knee to the groin would have been called for.

When they arrived back at the house, they saw him on the front sidewalk talking and laughing with one of Frank's neighbors. The only thing Cousin Herbert had going for him, Barbara thought darkly, was the fact that Bailey had hired him, and Bailey got good people. But to her eyes, Cousin Herbert looked like a hopeless drifter dodging an ex-wife or two.

“Howdy!” Herbert called when they got out of Barbara's car.

The neighbor waved and wandered off, still laughing, and Herbert lumbered toward the house. “Uncle Frank, this is sure a pretty house y'all got here,” he said in a loud voice. “But it sure needs a coat of paint. Here, let me show y'all something.” He pulled out a pocketknife and attacked the rail of the front stoop. “See, needs paint.”

Frank winced. “Stop gouging my house.”

“Didn't touch the wood,” Herbert said. “Look up there, those blisters by the downspout? First thing you know, they pop, water gets in, and rot takes out the whole front. Needs paint.”

In spite of herself, Barbara looked up. If there were blisters, she could not see them.

“I'm going in,” Frank said, and stomped to the door, muttering something mildly obscene. Barbara followed.

‘'I'll just mosey on around the house and see how bad it gets,” Herbert said.

“I'm going to kill him,” Frank snarled inside the house.

Barbara considered it. He probably didn't mean Herbert; he didn't know him well enough. Bailey then. She nodded. “He can use a little killing now and then. Cousin Herbert is a treasure, isn't he?”

Frank glared at her and stormed off to the kitchen. When Bailey arrived ten minutes later, coffee was made and Frank was rummaging through the refrigerator, still muttering.

“Where on earth did you find that gorgeous hunk outside?” Barbara asked.

Bailey gave her a suspicious look. “You mean Herbert?” He dropped his denim bag on the floor by the table and sat down. “Don't let first impressions con you,” he said. “He's been around. FBI training, a rodeo performer for years, a tour of India, picking up some kind of meditation or something.”

“What we need,” Frank said bitterly. “A circus performer.”

“And he can shoot the fleas off a dog at a hundred yards,” Bailey continued. “Herbert's problem is that he doesn't want to stay in one place. He can paint, fix your car, put in plumbing, you name it. He can even cook.”

If Frank was mollified, it did not show. He sat down and motioned toward the carafe and cups. “Help yourselves. What do you have for us?”

Before they started, Herbert tapped on the sliding-glass door. Bailey waved him in.

“Mr. Holloway,” he said, “Bailey says you were roughed up a little and might not feel too well, and seeing that I've got nothing to do right now, I thought I might go buy a fish or something for all of us and use that beautiful grill you have out there. You have a beautiful garden. Okay if I pick stuff to go with fish? I don't guess you can get redfish in these parts, can you?”

“I thought we might order something,” Barbara said quickly.

“Nah. With all those beautiful vegetables out there, and that great grill? I'll just go see what I can find while Bailey's still here.” He backed out the door, grinning at them all, and left.

Bailey picked up his denim bag, gave Frank a hurried glance, then said, “Relax. He was a chef at Antoine's in New Orleans for a while. Now, about these names.”

For the next hour they discussed the names of the hospital committee members. Bailey said he had eliminated seven of the fifteen people, two women and two nuns, a priest, old Rudy Conroy, and Reggie Hersch. Barbara would have pointed out that the nuns were women, but Bailey had not stopped talking long enough.

“So, I have eight guys to follow up on,” he said. “I have their public stuff in here.” He patted a folder he had put on the table. “How deep do I go for the other stuff?”

“Hilde was fifty-three,” Frank said, scanning the list of names. “I'd say start with those who are between fifty and sixty-five, see what surfaces.”

Bailey nodded. “Okay. We lifted quite a few fingerprints from the Franz house, and someday we'll want to get some prints of anyone we begin to circle in on. But for now the question still is, how deep?”

“As deep as it takes,” Barbara said. “We want him.”

Herbert was a magician, Barbara decided that night. Mystified, she had watched him carry the grill off the porch into the yard, but when billows of smoke rose later, she understood; Frank grumbled that a fire engine would arrive any second. Herbert had bought a whole red snapper, which he said would have to do. He smeared a thick spicy paste on it and set it aside while he grilled zucchini, after marinating it in olive oil and garlic; he stuffed little red peppers with cheese, wrapped each one with a strip of bacon, and grilled them. Peas in a buttery tarragon mint sauce, grilled little new potatoes…

They ate on the back porch while the two cats prowled from the table to the grill. And Herbert talked about New Orleans.

“Six, eight feet below sea level, some places more than that. One day a levee will breach, then another, and so long, Big Easy. Most of those old houses are being held together by termite dung; they won't take much wave action.”

Frank's attitude changed during the meal from nearly open hostility to at least neutral interest. “You from New Orleans?” he asked.

“Nope. Texas. I just passed by that way a few years back, got a job in a restaurant and hung out watching what they did for a few days, then started cooking. Not much to it if you pay attention and know what you like. My motto: Never cook anything you don't like to eat.” He patted his ample belly and grinned.

Barbara was too content to argue with him. It certainly was not that simple. She knew what she liked (nearly everything), had watched, read cookbooks, made every effort, and she could not do it. It was magic, nothing less.

Then, with coffee in place, the cats savaging what was left of the fish, they discussed the coming days.

“Bailey said he wanted someone for general security. He says the guy might try it at night, here probably. He thinks you're safe enough in the daytime with people around if you stay out of deadend alleys and abandoned warehouses. And while I'm here, I can paint the house. But you'll have to pay for the paint and hours I'm painting. Bailey's paying my going rate per day.” He grinned again, a big toothy smile. “I don't mind cooking,” he said. “On the road like I usually am, I don't do much real cooking.”

“We'll take turns,” Frank said. “This was a damn fine dinner, and I can't compete as far as quality goes. But I'll give it a shot.”

Barbara bit her cheek to keep a straight face. Alpha males fighting over who got to cook. “If you'll excuse me now, I'll walk over to my place, check mail, check in with Shelley, like that. I'll ask her for a ride home if it gets dark.”

Then, walking, with cyclists whizzing by, children running, dogs on leashes pulling their slaves this way and that, couples with arms entwined, she thought of the twists and turns her case had taken. A bodyguard for her father! A newly discovered cousin. An old would-be date surfacing. A woman who died when she shouldn't have. A world-famous, yet anonymous, cartoonist. A client who would suicide rather than go to prison, whose privacy meant more to him than a possible murder trial. What it all added up to, she decided, was a mess.

The river was beautiful at this time of day, silver with a haze softening the banks, the trees on the other side, the occasional rock that made the water ripple and foam around it. The air was warm and still, fragrant down here; blackberries were still blooming, luminous in the shadows of the brambles. Two picture-book herons glided by, following the river.