F is for Fugitive (25 page)

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 Reverend Haws's ordinarily benevolent expression had already been replaced by something less compassionate.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 years 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.

 

 

 

 

 

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 tippytoe 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.