Family Practice (29 page)

She held open the screen. The dogs rushed out and swarmed around Susan, nudging and sniffing. “Come in.” Holly had on baggy cotton shorts and a green shirt. Her loose brown hair stuck up in a clump in back, as though she'd been resting her head on a pillow.

The living room still had stacks of photos in piles on every flat surface. Without waiting for an invitation, Susan made her way to the couch and plunked herself down. The Lab stood by her knees, eyeing the spot next to her with the clear intent of leaping up beside her. Holly snapped a finger. With a sigh, the Lab lowered itself to lie across Susan's feet. She reached down and rubbed its chest. It licked her hand and snuggled closer.

Holly sat across from her in the overstuffed chair. “Can I get you something? Iced tea? Coffee?”

“No thanks. What time did Taylor Talmidge get here last night?”

Holly flinched as though she had a headache and Susan's voice was too loud.

“He was here last night? Is that correct? What time did he come?”

“I've already told Ben Parkhurst.”

“I understand that. If you don't mind, I'd like to hear it again.”

“Around nine-thirty.”

“You were expecting him?”

With a fingernail, Holly scratched at the frayed arm of the chair.

“Your husband was home?”

“No. He went to see a friend in Kansas City.”

“He got home at what time?”

“I don't know. One maybe, one-thirty.”

“Did Taylor know he wasn't home?”

“Yes. I guess. I don't know.” Holly glanced at her watch. “I don't have much time. I need to get ready for work.”

“Work?” Susan was surprised; she assumed farmers' wives spent all their time gathering eggs and milking cows.

“Of course, work. How do you think we make it? Farmers' wives work wherever they can. Even farmers have second jobs. And this year, with the rain and the flooding—” Holly zipped her mouth shut.

“What time do you need to be there?”

“Three,” Holly admitted.

Since it was only one-thirty, there was no risk of being late.

“Where do you work?”

“At the hospital. Nurse's aide.”

Oh, for Christ's sake. Asses needed to be chewed about this one. Primarily, her own. She'd talked with Holly two days ago and hadn't gotten this little nugget of information.

“You knew Taylor was coming to see you last night?”

“No. Not really. I mean— Well, we're friends. He needed a friend to talk to.”

“I see.”

Holly had a half-tense, half-wary look of expectation, waiting for a question and hoping it wouldn't come. What the hell was it she didn't want to be asked?

“How long have you been friends?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you can tell me about your friendship.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“None. Unless there is a connection with the murder.” Susan almost had a thought here, but it got away. She hadn't had enough sleep to be doing this.

“I don't know anything about Dorothy's murder.”

Dorothy's, not Vicky's. “What time did Taylor arrive last night?”

“I told you, nine-thirty.”

“Your shift doesn't last until eleven?”

“I was off yesterday.”

Taylor could have gone to Vicky's house, fed her codeine, then come here. The time would have been tight, but it was possible. An attempt to set up an alibi? The thought teased and vanished before she could catch it. “How long was he here?”

“A couple of hours.”

“You must be very good friends. He came without being invited, stayed late. Your husband wasn't here.”

Holly didn't respond. Susan waited.

Holly fidgeted. “We're good friends.”

“How good?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Lovers?”

“No!” Holly's face turned a hot pink. “Let me tell you something. I am not some bored housewife just dying for excitement, fluttering over romantic looks, snatched murmurs of love, and forbidden afternoons of lust. Taylor and I are friends.”

Susan believed her, reluctantly. If Taylor wasn't trying to rig up an alibi, hadn't come to ease into the sack with Holly, then why? The thought fragment slipped into her mind and out again. Damn it, what was she groping for? “What did you talk about?”

“Nothing.” Holly took an instant too long to answer.

Ah. Whatever they'd talked about was the very thing Holly wanted to avoid.

“I mean we just talked. It's hard for him. The Barringtons never really liked him all that much, and they think he— He just needed a friend.”

“Did he mention Vicky?”

“No. Why would he?”

“Did he tell you why the Barringtons got together last night?”

“No.” The word came too fast and got caught on an indrawn breath.

Stolen painting. That's what Holly was trying to avoid. Susan finally got hold of the errant thought. Taylor had come to tell Holly the theft had been discovered. Why would he do that unless Holly was involved somehow and he wanted to tell her to expect cops with questions? “He told you they were all there because Ellen asked them to come?”

“He may have. I don't remember.” Holly reached up, smoothed down the clump of hair, and for a moment held her hair back in a ponytail. She looked ten years younger with the hair off her shoulders and curly wisps around her face.

“And the reason Ellen asked them was because she thought she knew why Dorothy had been killed.”

Apprehension pinched Holly's face, a thin white line appeared at the corners of her mouth. Susan had seen the look before, usually just a moment or two before the person dropped over in a dead faint.

She went to the kitchen, found a glass, and filled it with tap water. She handed the glass to Holly and watched her take a sip; then, when she was sure Holly wasn't going to pass out cold, she sat back down. “You want to tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“You must have known you were breaking the law,” Susan said gently. “You could go to jail.” Not unless some charges were made.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The painting is valuable. You're facing a felony charge.”

Holly gripped the glass with both hands. “I didn't steal it.”

“You know who did. It was Taylor, wasn't it? That's why he came to see you last night. To warn you we'd be around asking questions.”

Holly stared at the glass.

“Is that why Taylor killed Dorothy? He took the painting and she found out.”

Holly looked up, stared at her with eyes like flint.

“You helped him steal it.”

“No.”

“Mrs. Dietz, you're in a lot of trouble. Your best bet is to tell me about it. Maybe I can help you.” She waited. Holly sat like a rock. “You told the owner of the gallery you were Ellen Barrington.”

“No.”

“He can identify you.” Susan wasn't sure he could, if his eyesight was as poor as Osey thought. Doubts niggled in. Why would Holly help steal a painting? Why would Taylor steal it in the first place? Money, of course, but an urgent need? She was speculating ahead of the evidence again—her biggest flaw, according to Captain Reardon—but she felt the kick of adrenaline that happened when a case starts to come together.

“I don't want to talk to you anymore,” Holly said.

Short of reading her her rights, taking her in, and booking her, there was nothing Susan could do. Ha. Book her for what? There was no evidence linking Holly to murder, no evidence linking her to theft. Which they didn't even officially have.

Susan stood up. “When will your husband be home?”

“Harlen? This afternoon sometime.”

“I'll be back.”

In the pickup, the radio chattered. She reached for the mike. “Yes, Hazel?”

“Ben's trying to get you. Hang on, I'll patch him through.” A minute later, Parkhurst's voice came in over a lot of static. Birds again, sitting on the communications tower; something had to be done. Beyond the odd word, all she could hear was fuzz. They did manage enough contact to work out a meet at the Best Little Hare House in Kansas.

The diner, on the edge of town, featured rabbit on the menu: fried rabbit, rabbit stew, ground rabbit. It was busy and loud, jukebox blaring a country-and-western tune, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging heavy, cement floor, rough wooden booths with unpadded benches, truckers arguing, laughing, slapping each other on the back. Antlered deer heads and bobcats were mounted on the walls. Pictures of muscular young males in various stages of nudity were plastered all over the walls and ceiling of the ladies' room. She assumed the men's room had the opposite adornment.

In a booth at the rear, Parkhurst was working on a glass of iced tea. She slid in across from him and felt the rear of her slacks snag on the rough wood. She'd never tried the specials, and never intended to. Bunny rabbit was something she'd never cared to eat. She ordered a chicken sandwich and iced tea, closed the menu, and handed it back to the waitress.

“What have you got?” she said.

Parkhurst propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward to hear over the babble. “Core samples.”

“Ah. What?”

“Harlen Dietz is getting into all the activities that precede drilling himself an oil well. Aerial photographs, geological surveys, core samples.”

When she thought of oil wells—if she ever did—she thought of Texas, but beam pumps, like giant bobbing chicken toys, raised their heads any number of places in northeast Kansas: cornfields, sorghum fields, by the side of the road. “I thought the oil business went in the dumper.”

“Pretty much has. Used to pump millions into the state coffers, but oil prices slid way off. That meant production went down, which led to fewer new wells and existing wells plugged, then layoffs and companies going belly-up. And crude here is heavier than the imported stuff, so it sells for less.”

“Then why is he doing this?”

The waitress brought Parkhurst's cheeseburger and her chicken sandwich in red plastic baskets, added bottles of catsup and mustard, and asked if they needed anything else.

When she left, he dumped catsup on his french fries. “I think it's a last-ditch effort to save the farm. Harlen's in bad trouble. Owes money everywhere. He hasn't been able to pay the back taxes. If he doesn't take care of that, he's going to lose the land. He loses Holly's land, she's apt to drill him.”

“Holly would do a lot to save that farm?”

“Yes, ma'am, she would. People get rabid about land that's been theirs for generations. Anything short of murder, and I'm not real sure about that.” He looked at her. “What have you got cooking in your head?” He bit into the burger and chewed.

“I assume this is an expensive proposition, drilling a well.”

He swallowed. “Very.”

“Does he expect to get it back, make a profit?”

“He must. And according to the geologist, he's got a promising site with great potential. Estimate in the millions of barrels. The section of Dietz land that abuts Ellen's place. The assumed oil pool runs under her land too.”

The waitress came up and refilled the iced-tea glasses.

“Where is Harlen getting money for photographs and surveys and whatnot?”

Parkhurst took a slug of tea. “Why do I get the feeling you're about to tell me?”

She pulled a piece of lettuce from her sandwich and stuck it in her mouth. “Harlen Dietz wasn't at the Barringtons' when Vicky threw out her barbed comment about core samples.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “How would Vicky know?”

“Her family and Holly's have been friends for years. She sees Holly now and again. Holly could have told her. You want to come right out and tell me what you're talking about, instead of dancing all around it?”

“Taylor.” Susan broke off a chunk of sandwich and popped it in her mouth. When she swallowed, she took a sip of tea to help it down. “He got annoyed with the Barringtons pointing their fingers at him and pointed one at Vicky. She said, ‘Don't point at me; I know about core samples.' Why would she say that unless it meant something to him?”

“And it meant?”

“Taylor was providing the money for Harlen's oil well. Taylor didn't have enough, or the whole deal cost over the estimate and he had to come up with more or lose what he'd already invested.”

“Uh-huh. So he grabbed a painting and sold it. Holly then waltzed it into the gallery and said, ‘Hi. I'm Ellen. Fork over the dough.'” Parkhurst raised an eyebrow. “Anybody ever say you got a fancy imagination?”

“It's been mentioned.” That fancy imagination had been as useful as an informant at times. It never made a case, but it gave her direction. Those leaps of fancy, more often than not, proved right on when evidence was turned.

“Why pick Ellen to blame?” Parkhurst said in a voice cluttered with doubt.

“She's the only Barrington with dark hair. Holly has dark hair. To someone with poor eyesight, it could look short if she had it pulled back. Maybe Ellen was the only one Dorothy could be convinced was lying, if the theft were discovered. It's conceivable Dorothy would believe Ellen would take it and then lie.”

The waitress drifted up to remove the baskets and topped off the tea glasses.

“Taylor had a piece of bad luck,” Susan said when she drifted away. “If Dorothy hadn't spotted the filler in the paper, it might have gone undetected for who knows how long.”

“Taylor was simply going to hope nobody would realize it was gone? Less than bright.”

“There's Ellen. She could deny it until the sun went down. Taylor could whisper in Dorothy's ear, ‘Ellen's lying. Look how much trouble she's always been. Maybe you should just let it go. Why cause a rift in the family?'”

“Dorothy called her family together to denounce the thief, and Taylor shot her,” Parkhurst said, with his doubts still showing.