Sleight of Hand (3 page)

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 with 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 break-in, 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 incredible 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.

She passed the commercial sprawl on Eleventh, big box stores, the industrial park and a few more miles of not much, then turned onto Hunter's Lane. One mile to a second turn, to Owl Creek Road, a narrow road in need of repair, with a leaning sign that warned, No Outlet.

There was a ranch house near the corner, a stretch of unkempt trees and brambles and a green field of grass or wheat on the other side. Meg had said there were only five houses on Owl Creek Road and theirs was the first on the left. The nearest house in sight from it was at least a quarter mile away.

Most likely no one could have seen Meg. Barbara stopped her car thirty minutes after starting. Add another ten minutes to reach that point from Jay Wilkins's home.

Now pray that Wilkins was killed at midnight or later, she added to herself after doing the numbers.

The house was tall and a little too narrow for its height, in need of paint. It had a deep porch with white pillars to the upper floor, a mixture of American late-twenties and pseudo-Colonial, not a good mix on such a tall house. Wally opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell.

"Come in. Come in. Our first real visitor and even if we're not formally receiving yet, you are welcome."

The door opened into a living room where furniture was grouped in the center and boxes stacked about. The walls were dingy, like a peach that had grown moldy.

"We're doing one room at a time," Wally said with his big winning grin showing what appeared to be too many teeth. "And this one was low on the list. This way."

Meg joined them and smiled at Barbara as Wally led the way to a kitchen the width of the house, brightly painted in yellow and robin-egg blue. A big, much-scarred oak table and mismatched chairs were by a cluster of windows. "This was first," Wally said gesturing. "Needed new appliances, stove, fridge, microwave and such, but the cabinets were here. Pretty, aren't they? The table's from Meg's childhood, in storage for twenty years."

"Wally," Meg said, "I'm sure Barbara didn't come here to admire our house. Come this way," she said gesturing to Barbara. They ended up in a room with comfortable furnishings, a television, fresh pale green paint on the walls and sparkling white cafe curtains. The view out back was of a brick-red barn with a cedar shake roof covered with moss.

"I like your house," Barbara said. "It's going to be great when you're done."

"We had priorities," Wally said, beaming. "Kitchen first for food and drink.

Bedroom next, rest and... rest. This was next, and that's when we decided to get away from the paint smells and breathe some ocean air. Wish we had stayed home, but there it is." He motioned toward a wing chair. "You'll find that comfortable," he said. Then he put his arm about Meg's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. They sat down on a sofa. "She told me," he said. "Too bad, but water under the dam, water over the bridge, water spilled, or something. It's done and what do we do about it now?"

"Not a thing yet," Barbara said. "Until we know when Wilkins was killed, we sit tight.

Wally, are you certain you didn't accidentally pick up the boat and slip it into your pocket?"

His grin broadened. "Barbara, my coat was in the foyer. If I'd done that it wouldn't have been by accident. Nope. Jay did it."

"Why?" Barbara asked. "Was there an old score to settle? Was he jealous over Meg? Why would he have done such a thing?"

"I don't know. I can't figure it out, no way. We weren't really friends in the long gone days, just collaborators and coworkers. I never did a thing to him, and after they got me I told him he was out of it. And he was."

Meg shook her head. "It was pretty well-known that Wally and I were a thing. Jay never paid any attention to me."

"Okay," Barbara said. "What did he say about his wife when you saw him at the casino?"

"I saw him first," Meg said, "and he was not very interested. I didn't mean a thing popping up from the past. In fact, he didn't ask a single question about us, where we'd been, what we'd done. I don't think he was interested then or later. I said for him to come say a quick hello to Wally, that we were getting ready to leave, and he went with me to the blackjack table. He didn't mention his wife until Wally left the table and said hello. I don't think he liked the way Wally looked him over or something and he sort of moved back a step," Meg said. "It was as if to make up for that little bit of awkwardness that he began to talk about her, that she was away on a trip, and he was lonely. He could be quite charming, a salesman at heart. He asked when we would be back in town and invited us to come out to his house on Monday. We weren't together more than ten minutes. On Monday, we were with him a little longer, maybe half an hour."

"What did she mean, the way you looked at him?" Barbara asked.

"It was spooky that he was so much like his father. I might have looked him over pretty hard," Wally said.

"On Monday night, what did he say about his wife?" Barbara was feeling dissatisfied and frustrated and told herself there was nothing more to pursue in this line, but she asked and waited for their answer.

Meg supplied it. "He said he had called her sister and his wife had not gone there to visit. He didn't know where she was, and he was worried. He had called the police to report her missing, but they said to wait a few days. He said she'd had a nervous breakdown a couple of years ago, and he was afraid she was suffering major depression, that she might not be responsible, that she might even harm herself, commit suicide. He was not leaving the house, for fear she would finally call and he wouldn't be there." She glanced at Wally. "That's about it, I think."

He nodded. "We never met her but even so I guess my sympathy was for her, not him," Wally continued. "If he was as much like his old man as he looked like him, she had cause to hightail it out. He left to get her picture to show us. That has to be when he put the boat in my coat pocket."

"Full circle back to the boat," Barbara said. "Okay. But there could be a reason for his asking you to the house. Try to think of what it might have been." She started to get up.

"There's another thing or two," Wally said. He had his arm around Meg's shoulders again and drew her closer. "We know it was a mistake to take the damned boat back, and that someone could have seen Meg. I'll take the rap before I let them hang it on Meg. Keep that in mind."

No trace of her dimple or his affable grin was in sight. Her lips tightened slightly and she shook her head a little. Wally evidently tightened his grip on her shoulder.