i a72d981dc0406879 (31 page)

The darkness outside seemed to call to me, to lure me on, first
to the window to look out on a typical San Francisco night: swirls
of fog, no stars. One of the two streetlamps I could see from where
I stood had burned out. I narrowed my eyes and shielded them with
cupped hands against the glare from the light behind me in the
room, yet I could see no one abroad on either side of the
street.

My extreme physical restlessness escalated. I left the window
and went downstairs, forcing myself to move slowly, telling myself
every step of the way that this was ridiculous, that I would only
go to the door, open it, look out, and of course see nothing at all
unusual. And that was what I did.

Yet I heard something. Very faint at first, so that I had to
strain every nerve in order to be sure I'd heard it, and strain yet
further to discern from what direction it came. And there! Again.
From the bottom of the steps and to the right, where up against the
house, because of the burned-out streetlamp, lay an area of deepest
shadow, I heard it . . . the sound of someone crying.

I FOLLOWED the sounds, blindly at first; then as my eyes
adjusted I managed to see a form huddled up against the house,
behind a row of low-growing juniper bushes that screen the
foundation. Its human shape was discernible only from its paleness,
which reflected what precious little available light there was. And
as I drew nigh I knew with a sinking certainty to whom that shape
belonged.

"Frances," I whispered, "is that you?"

She whimpered once and recoiled. Crouching, she had wrapped
herself into the smallest possible shape. Yet she did manage to
say: "F-Fremont?"

"Of course it's Fremont. Who else, on these premises?" I said,
intentionally a bit harshly, as I took a last sweeping glance
around to be absolutely certain there was no one hanging about.
There was not. So I went on in a no-nonsense manner, as my
experience with traumatized people after the earthquake had taught
me-for why would she be hiding in the bushes if she were not
traumatized, and I had only too good an idea by whom: "What in the
world are you doing back there in the bushes when we could be
inside? Why ever didn't you just ring the doorbell, you silly
ninny? Come on, then!"

Frances took the hand I extended and allowed me to pull her to
her feet. Only then did I realize that she was entirely naked. I
sucked in my breath but was able to prevent myself from saying a
word, or indeed from making any sound, while I led her as quickly
as possible up the steps and into the house.

Once inside I ordered her, again in that no-nonsense voice, "Go
on up the stairs to my apartment. I'll just lock the door and then
I'll be right along."

"I c-c-can't!" Frances said through chattering teeth. She had
crossed her arms over her breasts, as I supposed I should have done
in her place, but that did not hide the rather spectacular sight of
her other red-gold hair.

"Don't be silly. Of course you can."

"C-c-close your eyes then, if I g-go up first."

"I promise I won't look," I said, making a fuss over locking the
door, which was a mere matter of throwing a bolt. "And don't worry,
the first thing I'll do when we get up there is provide you with
one of my bathrobes, and then I'll run you a nice, hot, relaxing
bath, and only after that will you have to tell me what has
happened."

"Thank you, Fremont," Frances managed to say with some dignity.
I did not look, and she did go on up the stairs.

Frances seemed to recover her spirits quickly. In body she had
not suffered-Jeremy McFadden had spared her, for once, and although
I was glad, I wondered why. She sat in the other wing chair,
wearing my best bathrobe and sipping the tea I'd made for us
both.

I thought it prudent not to ask questions. Surely she would tell
me all I wanted to know, in time. I was right about that; it was
not long before she started to talk.

"I suppose I must tell you everything, since I've thrown myself
on your mercy this way," she began.

"Not necessarily. I'm curious, of course, but mainly I'm glad to
see that you are all in once piece. You have escaped with your
health, and your life, and considering how things have been going
for some women lately . . ."I thought it best not to finish that
sentence.

"It was
... it is
the oddest thing!" She paused, looking
into the distance vaguely, with a tiny frown that creased the space
between her brows in quite an attractive manner. I was perversely
glad of Michael's absence, for my friend's hair flowed about her
neck and shoulders and curled around her face in a way that I- with
my dark, straight-as-a-stick locks-could not help but envy. Not to
mention that she filled out my robe in a fashion I could never have
done myself.

After an overlong pause, I prodded: "Odd?"

"Yes." She sipped her tea. How maddening that she would not
continue!

I poured more tea, counseling myself to be patient. Eventually
Frances began to speak again, this time gathering momentum and
continuing on in earnest.

"Perhaps he didn't beat me because I stood up to him for the
first time ever. I don't know how I managed, really. No, I
do
know-I thought of Patrick, and what a team we make. Oh,
but I should begin at the beginning!" She flushed in a manner most
becoming.

"It might be helpful."

"Of course. Well, this is what happened. You did persuade
Patrick, Fremont, that we should not meet in my rooms anymore, for
fear my husband would find out and misunderstand."

I doubted there would be much misunderstanding, based on what
I'd seen pass between Patrick and Frances, but I let that go by,
and she continued.

"But I just couldn't allow our work, my own training, to stop.
You see, there's a certain kind of momentum that builds up, it's
rather difficult to describe. But it depends on us being together.
Without Patrick I feel less than whole. It's as if the other half
of myself is missing. You must know what I mean; you and your
partner, Michael . . . ?"

"We don't have that kind of a relationship," I said quickly. Yet
in truth I did know what she meant. I knew that feeling of missing
an important part of oneself, and it bothered me a good deal, as I
did not know if it was a good or a bad thing. I said, truthfully
but vaguely: "We are very independent, Michael and I."

Frances leaned forward, as if the change in posture might help
to win me over to her point of view. I was feeling a certain amount
of resistance, and she may have sensed it.

She said, "Well, all right, then I'll just say I didn't want to
be without Patrick, I wanted my training to go on, and so we met
instead at his house. You know, the house on Octavia Street-it's
his now."

"Um-hm."

"I walked over, and as it is a long walk, I suppose my longer
than usual absences were noted. I don't know if Cora told Jeremy,
or if he just came home unexpectedly one afternoon and found me not
at home, or what. All I know is that he had me followed. Or so he
said-I never saw anyone following me, of course, or I would have
come straight to you and asked what I should do about it. You know
these things, Fremont. I don't."

Some of the charm that worked on men she now turned on me. I
felt it working, as I inclined my head in mute acknowledgment of
her flattery.

She continued: "Jeremy assumed the worst-that I had done it, I
mean. I couldn't bear that, just couldn't bear it, because that is
not at all what Patrick Rule and I are about! And so"-her shapely
chin rose-"I told Jeremy that he was entirely wrong, I was not
doing anything sordid, rather I was developing a God-given talent
in the hands of a master."

A rather large promotion for Patrick Rule, I thought. Not so
long ago he had characterized himself as Abigail Locke's flunky.
Which meant, didn't it, that my friend Frances had given him the
means for a promotion? And I wondered when, at what point, he might
have begun to realize that this might happen.

"Jeremy laughed," Frances said. "He said something horrible,
obscene, about a-a talent for whoring. I couldn't have that, you
see"-her eyes flashed-"and I said so. I said a gentleman does not
speak to a lady in such a manner, and he himself had made me into a
lady, therefore I required that he apologize."

"Good for you!" I exclaimed, truly proud of her. So proud that I
forgot for a moment my dark train of thought, and where I had been
going with it.

Frances's eyes flashed, and she had a slight smile on her lips.
"He didn't apologize. Well, I never thought he would. But he didn't
strike me either, though he raised his arm. I forced myself not to
cower. After a minute he looked pretty silly standing there with
his arm in the air and a face like the wrath of God. Or so I
thought. Then he put his arm down, stuck his hands in his pockets,
and got very, very quiet, which turned out to be in a strange way
even more terrible."

"I can imagine."

"Can you? I was ... I really wondered if he would kill me then.
If he would suddenly let go of that iron control that kept his
voice so low and his hands in his pockets, and come at me in a rush
and strangle me. He didn't, obviously, since I am here. What he did
was, he said sure as he had made me he could break me. That I had
betrayed his trust and no longer deserved to be his wife, no longer
deserved to be fed, clothed, and sheltered by him. He ordered me to
take off all my clothes, and I did, without protest. Then he
ordered me to leave the house, naked as the day I was born. With
that, I did argue. But he was like-like a big dog herding sheep,
relentless, and I was the lamb. All I could do was move in the
direction he drove me, toward the front door, and out . . . out
into the dark and the cold. I couldn't even get that slicker from
the side room because the door was locked and I didn't have my
keys. I don't have . . . anything."

"That's not true, you know," I said softly. "You have yourself,
your life, your hopes, your talent, your abilities. And you have
quite a lot of luck on your side, I think."

"L-l-luck?" Struggling to control herself, she daintily touched
her nose with the heel of her hand.

"You made it here, naked, without being arrested." I smiled.

"That is so." She tried to return the smile, but instead, tears
filled Frances's eyes. She didn't let them fall. She blinked them
back, tossed her head, held out her cup, and asked brightly: "Is
there more tea?"

I put Frances in Michael's bedroom, because it was the only
other bed in the house. I gave her my spare key to his side of our
dwelling, which meant unfortunately that I had none, and so could
not go checking on her in the middle of the night if I should
happen to become anxious. I could call her on the telephone,
though, from the office downstairs. Michael, of course, had a phone
number separate from the business. He kept it unlisted, but I knew
the number by heart.

I was much troubled by what had happened to Frances, and for a
reason so very odd that I felt rather guilty: For her to be simply
turned out, even naked, did not make sense. Did not fit my notions
(which I had been so intent on reinforcing of late) of who Jeremy
McFadden was and what he had done-would do-to keep the exclusive
affections and attentions of his lovely but quirky wife.

In the process of getting myself ready for bed I pondered: Why
would McFadden have gone to the trouble of murdering the two
mediums, or even just the first, Abigail Locke, yet then toss
Frances out at the first real hint of infidelity? He wouldn't . . .
would he? And yet, how could he not be the murderer when he was
already guilty of physically abusing his wife? Were France's
bruises not the proof, which I had seen with my own eyes, of the
lengths to which the man would go to keep her all for himself? From
physical abuse to murdering one's rivals-the rivals for her time
and attention in this case being not lovers but the mediums- seemed
like an orderly progression to me. Or it had until now, when he had
broken the pattern.

I had reached the stage of brushing out, then braiding, my long
hair before sleep. I was sitting on the side of the bed, my side,
wishing Michael were here to brush my hair the way he loved to
do-the way I loved him to do-when suddenly there came back to me
the thought about Patrick Rule that I had pushed away days earlier:
What If Patrick had had some sort of squabble with Abigail Locke
that no one knew about? What if he had, that night he'd helped me
put the entranced Frances into the Maxwell, seen possibilities in
Frances McFadden, and had decided to bide his time, to lay his
plans carefully, maybe rid himself of Mrs. Locke and then . .
.

"Oh, surely not!" I muttered, brushing with renewed vigor. I
hung my head down, flipped the hair over, and brushed it from
underneath, which is supposed to be very good for circulation of
the blood in the scalp, and stimulating to new hair growth. Perhaps
it would stimulate new growth in my brain as well. I had so hoped
to have this case wrapped up before Father's visit . . . but now
that was only a day off. It wasn't going to happen. And how could I
pay proper attention to both Frances and Father?