Desperate Measures (9 page)

Will leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. “You and your father on opposite sides?”

“Looks like it.”

“He wouldn't cut you any slack if you talked to him about Alex?”

She snorted. “Fat chance. And I wouldn't give him an inch, either.” She reached for another nacho.

He caught her hand. “Don't fill up on that. Let's go have some real dinner.”

“I can't. But thanks. Too much piling up on me, I'm afraid.”

“Okay. I'll accept a rain check.” He let go of her hand, and she picked up another nacho. “Let me tell you a little about me,” he said. “I have a son who's nineteen. Weird, isn't it, but there it is. I watched him through the years reading
Xander
, laughing, cutting out strips he thought applied to me, and sticking them on the fridge to be sure I got them, too. And I couldn't say a word. His mother and I divorced after fourteen years, just not right for us, too much monogamy, that sort of thing. No problem on either side, or with Travis. He's cool. Three years ago I got married again, and this time she had two kids going into the marriage. They hated me, and I can't say I was fond of them. She left after a year and is married now to a surfer down in California, and I bet her kids hate him, too. Anyway, there I was with my own son, and two more kids, and I bought a pretty big house, which I still have. It's for sale, no takers yet.”

He was looking past her, a slight smile on his face. “I'd love it if Alex drew
Xander
in my house. Someday, maybe ten years or longer, but someday it won't be a secret anymore, and I'll rub Travis's nose in it.” He laughed. “But even if that never happens, I would be tickled pink if he would use my place now.”

“Where is Travis?”

“England, a year of study. Architecture. Christopher Wren is his hero.”

“Where is your house?”

He told her the address on Fox Hollow Road, worked a key off a ring and handed it to her. “Go out and take a look. I have another key hidden out there.”

They arranged the code they would use if Dr. Minick or Alex wanted to talk to her, or she to them; she finished off the nachos and her drink. “Now I've got to go,” she said. “Work. This has been very helpful, Will. Thanks a lot.”

“Nope,” he said. “I should thank you. Do you know how exciting contract work is? Trust funds? Wills? Thank you, Barbara. Tonight I'll gloat that I'm Xander's secret helper.” He laughed again, and they walked out to her car. At the door, he said, “Do you like jazz or blues?”

“Both. Very much. Why?”

“My rain check. Someplace with jazz. I'll give you a call.”

Driving, she thought, this time she would not say no. If she hadn't been paying so much attention to his neck years before, she would have noticed how fine his dark eyes were. His Adam's apple was perfectly normal.

Barbara drove to her apartment, where she collected bedding and her toothbrush, then headed back to the office. If Bailey had someone watching already, they would know she planned to camp out, and they would know there was something she had to guard. “Cat and mouse,” she muttered, carrying her things up the exposed staircase on the side of the building. They knew that she knew that they knew—an endless loop.

She sat at her computer to start researching Hilde Franz, whose life appeared to be an open book, an irreproachable life dedicated to education and public service. She had served on many do-good committees. An early divorce, nineteen years in the past, appeared to be the only possible point of contention.

She printed the page that listed the various committees on which Hilde Franz had served-Looking Glass, for troubled adolescents; a hospital committee; Women Space; Food for Lane County…. Her eyes narrowed then as she studied the list. A committee to fight censorship in the library. Hilde's connection with Cloris Buchanan, the librarian who delivered books to Alex? Perhaps, she decided.

She was still at the computer at nine-thirty when Shelley arrived, carrying a large manila envelope. “We did all the computer stuff,” she said triumphantly. “Dr. Minick bought the neatest laptop I've even seen. He sent this stuff for you to put in the safe, and Alex and I installed his programs and the games and got them up and running. He put his initials on Dr. Minick's paintings—you know, the ones in the living room. There are others, too, all initialed
AF
now. Alex made dinner and I ate with them. He's a pretty good cook. Not like your dad or Martin, but good.”

Barbara laughed and held up her hand. “Now, stop and breathe while I tell you what's up.”

She told Shelley about her meeting with Will, the telephone signals, and his offer of his house. “We'll have to get Alex's computer over there and give him a call.”

“I'll take care of it,” Shelley said quickly.

“Okay. There's little more we can do at the moment.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Two people I want to talk to,” Barbara said. “Cloris Buchanan and Ruth Dufault. She's Leona Marchand's sister, the one who's staying with the kids. I want to get to them both before there's an arrest and they are instructed not to talk to anyone.”

Late that night Barbara put away the
Xander
scrapbook and then lay down on the sofa, thinking about the strip. It was funny and sad, poignant and slapstick; the boy Timmy was worldly and naïve, a superhero and a bumbler. He was Everyboy, she thought. He knew wrong when he encountered it, and he knew how to make it right, but as often as not he failed. And his endless, futile quest for the secret ingredient to make him powerful all the time… Inherently dark and sad, but Alex also made it funny.

She understood why the strip was a hit. Alex went straight to the heart of adolescence and exposed its vulnerability, its egocentricity and selflessness, its anguish and elation, its brilliant light and deepest shadows….

Usually Frank Holloway prepared for bed leisurely, checked doors, then stretched out with the two golden coon cats at the foot of the bed; after a certain amount of shifting to get comfortable, all three promptly fell asleep. Probably set up quite a chorus, he thought; he knew the cats snored, and didn't doubt that he outsnored them both. That night sleep eluded him, and he gave it up and returned to the living room, where he sat brooding on his very nice leathercovered sofa, absently stroking it and Thing One alternately. Thing Two tried to crawl into his lap, and he shoved the monster off again. Too hot to hold two cats that weighed more than twenty pounds apiece.

Barbara was sleeping in her office, Bailey had reported earlier, a report that could have waited until the next day. Bailey was unhappy and showing his displeasure at the turn this case had taken, getting back in a childish way.

“Anything else?” Frank had snapped, and when Bailey said no, he had hung up on him. After mulling it over, arguing with himself, he had finally called Hilde, to warn her not to talk to Barbara.

He had heard the note of uncertainty—fear?—in Hilde's voice when she said, after a pause a second or two longer than was normal, “I thought you worked together, a team. She won't be with you on this matter?”

“Not this time. She's tied up with her own client.”

“Oh, I see.” Her tone indicated otherwise.

“I just wanted to warn you not to talk to her, or anyone else, for that matter.”

The long pause again, then Hilde said, “Frank, is she working on this same case, but for someone else?” She did not wait for a response, but said, “That's it, isn't it? Why else would she want to ask me anything?”

Well, he thought, he had known Hilde was smart. Next she would press him to reveal Barbara's client, which he couldn't do. He forestalled her questions by saying, “I can't talk about it right now, Hilde. I'll give you a call in a day or two. Just sit tight and don't worry.”

Now, sitting up long past his bedtime, he worried about the call, about Hilde. She would have gotten in touch with her friend, he reasoned, warned him not to talk to Barbara. And she had expected them both to represent her, not just him. He had said, “We'll take care of you.” She would have taken that to mean him and Barbara, which was exactly what he had meant when he uttered the words.

Well, if she didn't like the arrangement, she could fire him and get someone else. That might be the very best thing that could happen, because if he stayed in, he intended to win.

Then he thought about Barbara sleeping in her office. Guarding something. Staying up all hours working. Probably skipped dinner… Tomorrow she would take something to the bank and stash it away in her safe-deposit box, out of Bailey's reach, out of Frank's reach. A smoking gun?

Maybe a smoking hammer. He drew up a mental picture of the kitchen Bailey had sketched for him. A big country kitchen with a dining table on one side fifteen feet from the stove; family meals, even company meals had been served at that table, Frank knew. Only Christmas, Easter, very special meals, would have been served in the dining room. Gus Marchand's body had been by the table. The real problem was not what happened inside the house, but rather access to the house in the first place, and there were too few people who could have come and gone in the short time available. Hilde could have had time, he had to admit.

Then he cursed. He had to know the name of her lover, and he had to know where he had been the evening Gus Marchand got his head bashed in. By now, that man knew that Barbara was working for someone else on this case. If he or Hilde had followed Barbara's cases at all over the past few years, they knew they had cause to worry.

It was a bad night. Twice Barbara came wide awake and got up to investigate strange noises. At six the cleaning crew arrived, and she felt as if she had been rubbing sand in her eyes all night. Also, she was ravenous.

At eight Maria and Shelley arrived at the same time, and to Barbara's surprise, Alan Macagno was trailing after them. Usually Alan looked like a paperboy tooling around on his bike, or a college student. That morning he looked a little embarrassed, and very amused. He worked for Bailey, and the last time he had kept an eye on Barbara, it had been to safeguard her.

Before she could say a word, Shelley was babbling. “Now, Barbara, don't scold. I simply can't stand that Mac. I told you it was on trial only. It's so… so
blue
! It doesn't go with a thing I have. The salesman said try it, you'll like it, you'll never go back to a PC, And boy, was he ever wrong. He said give it a try for a few days and if it isn't right, bring it back. You know that little laptop I told you about? Four pounds, battery and all, and it has sixteen gigabytes of something or other. And eight hundred megahertz.” She paused for breath and looked at Alan. “What's a megahert?”

“I think it has to do with speed,” he said, not quite laughing.

“It's like lightning!” Shelley exclaimed. “Anyway, I spotted Alan having some juice across the street and I asked him if he'd carry it down for me. Wait till you see that Mac, Alan. It's the bluest thing except sky I ever laid my eyes on. I can't believe I let that salesman talk me into it. Blue!”

Minutes later, as Alan carried the computer down to her car, Shelley called back up the stairs, “I'll be at Martin's this afternoon. My turn.”

Barbara retreated to her office, where she sat down laughing helplessly. Shelley was perfect. Valley girl all the way, big hair, pretty, fast talk, clothes. Pure rich-bitch Valley girl, when she chose to be. Take it back because it didn't match anything in her office!

At nine-thirty, showered, breakfasted, dressed in a skirt and blouse with sandals—she had drawn the line at hose—she went to her bank and put in her safe-deposit box all of Alex's files, his medical files, and the unexamined envelope that Shelley had brought back from Dr. Minick. Then she went to the public library, where Cloris Buchanan was a reference librarian. She went straight to her desk; Cloris Buchanan was on the telephone. In her thirties, with black hair tied up in a ribbon, half-glasses, little makeup, although she had started out with lipstick—traces were still visible—she looked like the classic librarian until one noticed her ears, four pierces in one, two in the other. Gold studs gleamed in them all.

Barbara stopped short of her desk until she finished her conversation, then she moved closer. “Ms. Buchanan? I'm Barbara Holloway, an attorney here in town. Would it be possible for me to pick your brain about censorship, banned books, things of that sort?”

“Why? For what purpose?” Cloris Buchanan asked.

“I need some background information in order to represent a client, and I remembered reading that you chair a committee fighting censorship. So, here I am.” She handed Cloris a card and watched her glance at it.

The telephone rang and Cloris picked it up and said, “Can you hold a second? Thanks.”

“Not here,” Barbara said. “I don't want to interrupt your work. Can I buy you some lunch? Ashby's. It's nearby.”

It was a block away—small, quiet, and very pricey. Cloris seemed to know that, too. She nodded. “I don't get off until one-thirty. I work late tonight, so I take a late lunch break.”

“That's fine,” Barbara said. “I'll make a reservation. See you then.” As she turned to leave, Cloris began to speak into the phone.

Walking out, Barbara thought that although Cloris Buchanan didn't have a clue about her at the moment, by the time they met for lunch, the librarian would have plied her trade.

In her car, using her cell phone, she made the reservation and then started the half-hour drive to Opal Creek. She didn't try to spot a tail, and didn't doubt that there was one.

Driving, she considered Daniel. Too little time, if his friends kept to their story that he was gone five minutes or less. Hardly enough time to run home, get his money, help his mother carry something to her car, and then get into a head-bashing fight with his father. Unless he and Leona had been in on it together. And that seemed even less likely. She had been more rushed than Daniel. Getting dinner ready, bathing, dressing, all in less than an hour. It didn't leave much time for a fight to develop to the point of murder.