Part 6 (1/2)

On Thursday night Frank mulled over what little he knew about the Marchand murder. Bailey said the son, Daniel, was in the clear. His buddies had timed him, with a warning that if he wasn't back in five minutes, they'd leave without him. He was back, huffing and panting, in four minutes thirty-two seconds. Bailey also said that the detective who ran the same route, a marathoner, took five minutes fifteen seconds to do it, and he had not stopped to talk to anyone or carry anything out to a car.

”Of course,” Bailey had said then, ”the kid could have bopped his old man in pa.s.sing, not even slowing down to see what the damage was. And wiped the hammer clean as he raced on by.”

It just didn't seem likely that Daniel thought he needed an attorney. But why else had Barbara gone there and stayed nearly two hours? And how the devil had she latched onto Cloris Buchanan so soon? G.o.d only knew what all she had learned over lunch. He knew that people talked to Barbara; she probably knew more Eugene secrets than anyone except Bailey. If she got hold of Hilde...

Bailey had not come up with anything about her affair, and that was good and bad. Frank wanted to know who the man was and exactly where he was when Gus Marchand was murdered, and Hilde wasn't going to tell him; it also meant that Barbara was as clueless about it as he was.

He had tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin when Bailey reported that Maria had given Alan a weather report. That was all anyone would get out of her, he knew. Maria was a younger version of his own secretary, Patsy; and the rack, wild horses, thumbscrews-nothing would worm anything out of either of them. He had laughed at the story of the blue computer. But now he wasn't laughing as he considered that story, and he cursed softly. Right under their noses, out and gone, and pretty little Sh.e.l.ley, as innocent as a b.u.t.tercup, using Alan as her accomplice. No one had bothered to tail her. And then nothing, no activity, nothing out of the ordinary, just routine in Barbara's offices, as far as he could tell.

”Okay, Bobby,” he said under his breath. ”Your points so far.” Then louder, he said, ”Move, you b.u.ms, bedtime.” The two golden c.o.o.n cats got up, stretched, and followed him out.

While he was brus.h.i.+ng his teeth, the phone rang, and at that time of night, after eleven, he always answered, and would have denied that he was always afraid Barbara was in some kind of trouble. This time he reached the phone just as the answering machine kicked in; when he lifted the receiver, the line was dead. Wrong number. He waited a few seconds, then continued getting ready for bed.

Across town, in the south end on a quiet residential street lined with great maple trees and chestnut trees, Hilde Franz replaced the phone. It could wait until the next day. She hadn't realized how late it was when she dialed, and she hoped she had not disturbed Frank at this hour. She was ready for bed, but the past few nights had been hard; she had slept little and felt light-headed from fatigue. Tonight she would take a sleeping pill, she decided. She knew she had to be careful with all medications, especially depressants like sleeping pills, but she had to sleep. For a diabetic, any stress was a problem, and to add sleep deprivation was inviting real trouble. She opted for the lesser of two evils and took the pill.

She sat in her living room waiting for drowsiness to set in, gazing at a new amber bowl, now filled with irises and baby's breath. It was very pretty. She loved her little house. Just right for one person, and it had been quite inexpensive years ago when she bought it. Her game plan had been to save every penny she could spare, invest her savings, and retire while she was still young enough and healthy enough to enjoy life. She smiled slightly; of course, plans could change, but it was good to know she was independent. When the flowers on a table across the room started to blur, she got up and went to bed.

She roused much later and thought distantly that she was in a mine shaft, dark and cold, with something heavy holding her there. She couldn't move her hands, her feet. Then she couldn't breathe, and the something holding her down was pressing harder, harder, harder....

9.

That morning when Frank wandered into his office at ten-thirty, Patsy gave him a few minutes to settle into his chair at his desk, then tapped and entered, bringing the morning mail, most of it already attended to. Usually she put the letters and responses down, then withdrew until he summoned her back. That morning she hovered. She was short and round, and perhaps the only woman in America who still wore a corset. He was certain that she did because no human figure could conform to such cylindrical lines as hers without help. Her hair was jet black, short and straight, and never once in thirty years had he glimpsed a gray or white root. Patsy was meticulous in all matters. And now she was hovering.

He looked through the mail for the cause, and there it was: a letter from the university press that would publish his book on cross-examination in the coming fall. Patsy had slit the envelope open, but he was certain she had not read the letter. She never read mail that might be personal; besides, if she had read it, she would be summarizing it for him instead of waiting patiently.

He read the letter twice, then looked up at Patsy. ”They want to know if we're sure we want to tackle the index ourselves. Usually they hire a professional indexer, it seems.”

She made a humphing noise. ”I'll either do that, or take up needlepoint or something,” she said. ”Of course I can do the index.”

He ignored her dig about having no work to do. ”They also say there are a couple of computer programs that help a lot. You want to shop around for something like that?”

”Sometimes those programs are more trouble than they're worth, but I'll have a look.”

”Right. Okay, fire off a letter. We're confident we can manage the index here. Et cetera.”

Half an hour later, he left.

He had walked only a few blocks when a car pulled to a stop even with him and someone called his name. He saw Milton Hoggarth waving to him, motioning him over. Milt was a lieutenant in the homicide division of the city police. Frank had known him for twenty years or longer, and he considered Milt to be one of the better detectives, but suffering from tunnel vision, as he was convinced they all did. Once they had their sights on a suspect, all else vanished.

”Morning, Milt,” he said, approaching the car.

”I was on my way to your place,” Milt said. ”Called your office two minutes ago, and your secretary said you were heading home. Give you a lift.” In his fifties, he was ruddy-faced, balding, with a fringe of curly coppery hair. His eyes were sky blue.

Invitation? Order? Frank opened the pa.s.senger-side door and slid in. ”What's up?”

”Probably nothing much. It'll keep until we get to the house. How've you been, Frank? Don't see you around much these days.”

”Keeping busy. How about you?”

They chatted, and neither said a thing, Frank thought, amused. Like two junkyard dogs, not ready to attack, but always on guard. Milt pulled into his driveway, and they got out of the car.

”This sure is a pretty place,” Milt said. ”Nice street. Practically downtown and feels like it's out in the boonies somewhere.”

It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Eugene, established when the city stretched little more than ten blocks this way, ten that. The houses were big, most of them two- or even three-storied, individual, with many architectural styles represented, and they were carefully maintained. Landscaping, like the houses, was mature-big trees, fifty-year-old shrubs, heritage roses. This time of year the rhododendrons and azaleas were magnificent.

They entered the house, and both cats strolled out to greet them; they wrapped themselves around Frank's legs, then sniffed the newcomer carefully.

”G.o.d almighty,” Milt said. ”You keep mountain lions?”

”c.o.o.n cats,” Frank said. ”Now, Milt, give me a hint. If this is a social call, we light in the living room. If it's business, then my study.”

”Business,” Milt said.

Frank led the way to his study, where he sat behind his old desk, the first desk he had ever had, and Milt settled down into the best chair in the house, older even than the desk, and somewhat frayed. It was where Frank sat for serious reading or serious thinking.

Milt gazed out the window at the backyard, which was at its peak. Riotous colors in flower borders, a meticulous vegetable garden, curving paths, a weeping cherry tree...

”The emergency unit got a call this morning. Woman found dead. Apparently she died in her sleep during the night. Nothing too mysterious, but they'll do an autopsy as a matter of routine. Also as a matter of routine, they checked her telephone for the last number dialed. Your number came up and we got curious.”

Frank had once said to Barbara, ”There's a place where your insides go to curl up and hide sometimes. People say their stomach dropped, and that's close enough, I guess, to describe it, but it's not just the stomach. It's the heart, the lungs, liver, everything. Gone. You're left empty, hollow, and ice fills the void.”

An iceman, he rasped, ”Who?” Not Barbara. He knew not Barbara. They wouldn't tell him this way.

Milt looked startled and said swiftly, ”G.o.d almighty, Frank! It's not your daughter! Jesus Christ, that never occurred to me, that you might think- She was Hilde Franz.” He averted his eyes again, gazed out the window, as if to give Frank time to replace the ice with blood.

Still looking out, he said, ”She was diabetic, and they say it happens like that sometimes. They just go. We'll know more after the autopsy. But having your name pop up made us wonder. She did call you last night, didn't she?” With the question, he turned to face Frank again.

”Someone called,” Frank said. ”A little after eleven. When I picked up, no one was there. It could have been Hilde.”

He punched the b.u.t.ton on the answering machine. ”You have three new calls.....”

They listened to them, and then the ring, the outgoing message, and nothing.

”That was it,” Frank said.

”She was your client?”

”Yes.”

”Any idea what she might have had on her mind at that hour?”

”Not a clue.” Then he said harshly, ”Fill it in, Milt. What happened to her?”

Milt shrugged. ”The school secretary got spooked when Franz didn't show up at eight-thirty. She knew about the diabetes. She waited until about nine and called her home number, no answer. At nine-thirty she called a friend and asked her to go around to see if Franz was all right. The friend saw the car in the driveway, couldn't get an answer to the doorbell, and called 911. They called us. Doc Steiner got out there pretty fast. She'd been dead for six to eight hours. No sign of a forced entry. No mess anywhere. House locked up tight. We found her diabetes medicine and sleeping pills, nothing else. Then your name popped up.”