Chapter 11
On Friday, Bailey called. His contact had checked in. Connie Wilkins's death occurred between Saturday, the nineteenth, and Monday, the twenty-first. Death by drowning. Most likely a suicide. The nineteenth was the Saturday that Jay took her to the airport in Portland.
When Barbara left the courtroom the following Tuesday, she paused in the corridor to check her cell phone, and found a message from Maria. She called back.
"Mr. Lederer phoned to say the police were there with a search warrant," Maria said.
"I knew I couldn't get you so I called your father."
"Good thinking. I'm on my way. Call Martin and tell him I won't be around. See you later." Her client, who had been given a suspended sentence, community service and probation, was in tears at her side. "Emergency," Barbara told her, patting her shoulder. "Just stay the hell away from that discount store in the future." The young woman nodded and tried to smile through her tears.
Barbara was seething when she retrieved her car from the lot across Seventh, and cursing under her breath as she drove through town. Bastards, they timed it for when they knew she'd be in court. It meant they were going to write off Connie's death as a suicide and would not be investigating a possible double murder and anyone who might have had a motive for killing them both. Keep it simple: one suicide, one murder. One easily understood motive, to avoid prison. One prime suspect.
She pulled into the driveway in twenty-five minutes, five minutes less than her previous trip had taken. To her relief she saw that Frank's car was in the driveway, along with a police car and an unmarked car.
A uniformed officer was on the porch watching her as she approached. "Holloway"
she said. "Attorney of record for Mr. Lederer." Without waiting for any response she walked past him, opened the screen door and entered.
Meg and Wally were side by side on the sofa, Frank in a straight chair nearby. Meg was pale and thin lipped, but Wally greeted Barbara with his big toothy smile and appeared quite comfortable. One detective was standing near the fireplace as if guarding the evidence bag on the floor at his feet, the other one sat in another straight chair. They were both young, late twenties, early thirties.
The furniture had been moved away from the walls, which had been painted with undercoat. The dismal moldy peach color showed through here and there. Tarps were on the floor, and cans of paint and a ladder near one wall.
"For goodness sake!" Barbara said cheerfully. "You're having a party and you didn't invite me! For shame. And what on earth are you doing in here? Do you have any idea how many toxins are in the air from fresh paint out-gassing?" She shook her head. "Neither do I, but it's a lot, and poor Meg looks like she's ready to keel over from it. Meg, this can't be good for your sinus condition, and I know it's not good for my father's heart."
She ignored the detectives' scowls as they exchanged furious glances.
"I suggest we move the party to the den," she continued, "where we can all be comfortable. Meg, why don't you and Dad go put on some coffee, whip up a batch of brownies or something. We can't have a party without some nibbles, now can we?"
"Ms. Holloway, I would like to ask your client a few questions," the cop who had been seated said in an icy tone.
"And I want to assist you in every way possible," she said. "But I insist on cleaner air. It's bad enough to fell a horse in here. Come along, gentlemen. This way, I believe."
Wally was already on his feet, and now Frank held out his hand to Meg. "You do look a bit peaked," he said. "Come on. Coffee's a fine idea."
"Your house is looking better and better," Barbara said to Wally as they walked to the den. The two detectives followed. There, Barbara motioned toward the comfortable furnishings. "See, didn't I tell you it would be better in here?"
In the kitchen Meg said in a shaky voice, "She's.. .she's.
"She's mad as hell," Frank said, grinning. "Let's make coffee. I'm afraid we'll be here quite a spell after she runs your other guests off."
"Wally," Barbara was saying at the window in the den. "Those new shingles look like scars!"
"Andy, the roofer, said after a few weeks of rain the moss will spread and they'll blend in," he said doubtfully. "I hope so. They sure do look bad now."
"Mr. Lederer, let's get back to it," the detective with a notebook snapped.
"I don't believe I caught your name," Barbara said.
"Jankow. Stephen Jankow. That's Marvin Trusdale. Now, Mr. Lederer, about Saturday, April 26, you said you were out cutting brambles all afternoon. Wearing jeans."
"Poor dear," Barbara murmured to Marvin Trusdale. "He's trying to tame blackberries by hand labor."
Trusdale grinned slightly. Jankow was not amused. His face had turned a darker shade of red than it had been only seconds earlier.
"Mr. Lederer, when you finished for the day, did you keep those jeans on?"
"I already told you all this," Wally said. "They were covered with stickers, leaves, junk, just like they are now." He pointed to the evidence bag. "Meg won't let me wear them inside."
"Detective Jankow, is this a formal interview?" Barbara asked. "I didn't see a stenographer around, but if you trust your memory enough... Anyway, if it is a formal interview and you'll require a signed statement afterward, then I should get out my tape recorder and we should start over. I always tape-record formal interviews.
Didn't they tell you that at the office?"
Jankow gritted his teeth, then closed his notebook. "I think we've finished here," he said.
"I suppose you provided a receipt for whatever you intend to take away," Barbara said, pointing to the evidence bag. "Just a formality, we all understand, but routine."
"I gave your father a receipt," he said. He nodded at his partner. Let s go.
Barbara and Wally walked to the door with the detectives, and she waved when they got inside their car and left with a squeal of rubber. The police car followed.
"Good riddance," she said when they were all out of sight. "What were they after?"
she asked Frank, who had come in from the kitchen with Meg.
"Any denim items, shoes and the floor mat of his car."
"They made me change my jeans," Wally said, pointing to the chinos he now wore.
"And they took all my shoes." He was wearing slippers. He reached for Barbara's hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. "Tiger," he said. "I salute you."
Meg said, "I had no idea you could just make them leave like that."
"They're flunkies," Barbara said. "Did you make coffee? We have things to discuss."
Seated at the old scarred table in the kitchen with coffee before her, Barbara said,
"Since they were after denim, we have to assume that they found fibers at the scene of Wilkins's murder. I don't know what all they have and won't know unless and until there's an arrest and I get discovery. That's the evidence they've collected so far.
They've had weeks now, so there's going to be a lot. And it appears that they've eliminated other possible suspects to their satisfaction. Meanwhile, you're not to say a word to them unless I'm there. Not the time of day, not your name. Nothing. Tell them on instructions from your attorney you're not to talk to them except in my presence, in my office. Then clam up.
"Next," Barbara said. "I'd like for you to write down everything you can think of concerning Jay Wilkins and those two meetings you had. There has to be a reason for him to have invited you to his place."
"Actually, I started doing that last night," Wally said. "I remembered a couple of things I didn't mention before. More might come to mind. When Jay opened that case to show off the Egyptian stuff, I remembered a time when we were just kids, fourteen, fifteen years old. He sneaked a couple of us into the study once to show off the gold. He told us not to touch anything, his old man would blow if he saw fingerprints on anything. He was scared when he took us in there. Then, that night when he fished out a key ring to open that case, I had the feeling it was just to show that he was master of the keys now. It was all his. He put his whole hand on the glass front, as if to show he was boss."
"And the bar," Meg said. "Remember how he went on about it, how his father had bought it in New Orleans from a brothel, had it dismantled and shipped home and set up. He never was allowed in that room, he said, and now it was his."
"The point is," Wally said, "he hadn't really mentioned his wife until Meg asked if he had heard from her yet. Just bragging about what was his now right up until then.
After that, she was all he talked about."
Barbara nodded. "See? As you jog your memories, more and more little bits might come to mind. Just write them all down and we'll see if they are useful later."
For the next hour Barbara outlined what they should expect in the coming days and weeks —possible arrest, arraignment, booking, bail bond hearing. "We'll walk you through every step. And I want you in the office for a long afternoon of my own interrogation later this week." She consulted her calendar. "Let's make it Friday afternoon. And," she added when Wally glanced at his slippers, "I'll get your shoes back. They don't have any possible use for all of them even if they find something suspicious on one pair."
"It's the boat, isn't it?" Meg said. She looked agonized. "That made them turn their attention to Wally."
Barbara nodded. "Maybe. Just remember this, Meg. You saw someone else's car there, and whoever that was either hasn't come forward, or if he did, they're keeping it under wraps. I'll know more after I get discovery. If that person was the murderer, he may be just as afraid as you are. And probably he can't identify you. If he saw you inside the house, it was just for a second or two. For now, we keep it under our hats. Wait and see."
"If he has told the cops," Wally said, "and if they use that against me, that
I
was seen, so be it.
I
took the damn boat back. A practical joke that soured. You remember that, Barbara."
He looked fierce and determined, and Meg's anguish only deepened. Barbara nodded. She would remember.
Chapter 12
On her way back to the office, Barbara made a mental list of all the things she had to wrap up in the coming days to clear the decks, get ready for anything. It was a long list, and the first thing on it was marching orders for Bailey.
At seven, her stomach making ferocious noises, and a faint headache coming on, she thought about lunch. She had skipped it, and then she thought about dinner, closed the folder in front of her and got ready to leave. She paused. Darren. She was supposed to let him know. He had asked her to go with him and Todd to a friend's place on the coast. She would have her own room, he had said, and the friends kept horses, theirs to ride all weekend. She placed the call.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I really can't. I'm totally swamped. I'll be working late and on through the weekend, I'm afraid."
After a long pause he said he was sorry, too. "Another time," he said. "I'll be in touch."
She closed her eyes and nodded. Another time. A mix of regret and relief left her feeling more confused than ever.
When Meg and Wally arrived Friday afternoon, he was wearing work boots. He held up his foot to show her. "I sort of like them. Just the thing for those brambles out back."
She laughed and motioned toward the seating arrangement at the coffee table. "As it happens," she said, "I have your shoes. Five pairs? Is that right?"
"That's what they took," Wally said. He and Meg sat side by side on the sofa and Barbara in the wing chair. She started what she knew was going to be a long, grueling afternoon.
When Wally began to talk about his cell mate from years ago, Meg said, "When Joey died, the chaplain wrote to Wally and thanked him for giving comfort during Joey's last years. The warden signed it, too."
"Bring it next time," Barbara said. "Anything that you have. A complete video of the show Wally does, anything like that."
She kept them until a little after five. After she saw them out, she sent Maria home.
"I'm going to make notes for another hour, but you don't have to stay." She had made a few notes as Wally talked. But she wanted as full an account as possible while it was all fresh in her mind.
It was a little past seven when she leaned back, stretched, then cleaned off her desk, and left the office. When she pulled up in front of her apartment building and got out, the sun was still shining and the air was still warm. It was the perfect time of day for a walk, but she was too tired to make the effort.
She came to a stop when she saw Darren sitting on her front step. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Waiting for you. Have you eaten?"
She shook her head.
"Neither have I. Let's go eat."
"I thought you were heading out to the coast."
"Tomorrow. Todd's invited a pal and he can't get away until about ten in the morning."
He took her arm, and turned her around. "Want to show you my new car, and if you're as hungry as I am, you're more than ready for some food."
She resisted only for a moment, then made up her mind. After they ate, she would tell him this had to stop. She could not stand being so confused —eager to see him, then backing away, wanting to go to bed with him, knowing it would be a mistake.
An affair with him would be tantamount to a commitment, and she wouldn't, couldn't make such a commitment. The tension was there, almost palpable, and it was making her crazy. It had to stop. She couldn't think how to tell him, but words would come after she ate something. She would know by then.
Chapter 13
"Todd wanted an SUV so we could haul a dozen of his pals at a time," Darren said, getting behind the wheel of his new car. "I drew the line. Four's the limit. I don't know yet what all the buttons and dials are for, but Todd does. He informs me in a pitying tone."
He drove easily, talked easily. Barbara leaned back in the passenger seat and listened.
"He's getting quite a circle of friends who seem to need constant driving here and there, so the truck just didn't work any longer...."
She closed her eyes and let herself drift to the music of his voice. When they stopped, she felt herself stiffen, and gave him a swift glance. They were at the Italian restaurant they had gone to once before, barely on speaking terms. He seemed oblivious.
Even the same table, she thought with dismay when they entered and were seated.
She could remember nothing of that meal except that they had argued throughout dinner. From the start they had been wary of each other, as if they had both recognized from their first encounter that the other was a force to be reckoned with.
She had cleared him and Annie McIvey of the murder of Annie's husband, but instead of expressing anything like gratitude, he had picked a quarrel. Or she had.
She couldn't remember how it had begun, only that it had persisted throughout dinner.
He ordered a bottle of Soave as soon as the waiter appeared. "And focaccia, for starters," he added, then picked up his menu.
She consulted her own menu. They had started off arguing, but they wouldn't finish that way, she thought furiously. Keep it light and friendly, no arguments.
The wine and bread arrived and they ordered. "Sicilian halibut," Barbara said. After the waiter left she said, "I have no idea what I just ordered. Life's just one big gamble, isn't it?"
She began to talk about her new client. "He's incredible. A reformed pickpocket, with a highly paid act that uses his skill. Truly ambidextrous apparently. He shakes your hand with one of his, and steals your wallet with the other."
Darren laughed. "That would be pretty useful for some of my clients. This one guy had an accident, mountain climbing, that left him paralyzed in his right arm, his dominant arm. It took him six months of arduous therapy to retrain his brain and muscles in order to switch to a lefty, a pretty awkward lefty at that."
"Wally's going to give me a tape of his whole act," she said. "I'll put on a private viewing, a few invited guests. See if any of us can spot him in the act. I couldn't in the demo." She stopped abruptly and looked away, regretting her words. Darren refilled her glass, then leaned back as the waiter came with their dinners.
A few minutes later, Darren said, "It isn't fair that you know all about my family and I know so little about yours, except for your father, I mean. My old man, a crooked cop who dropped out of sight to mingle with the great nameless masses and never surfaced again, sister married to a gangster, mother now married to a good, square-headed Dutch farmer who drinks whole milk with every meal. Tell me something about your mother."
Barbara looked at him in surprise. It was true, she had never really talked about her mother, it had been too painful. Slowly she said, "She was wonderful, beautiful, warm, nurturing, generous, and she ran the household like a drill sergeant. Often, when Dad was working late, you know, caught up in a case and not minding the time, she made dinner and took his to him while it was still hot. Sometimes I went with her." A vivid memory of wandering in the corridor outside his office rose in her mind. She had looked in the library, some of the other offices, and she had known that was what she wanted. She would be a lawyer, like her father.
"They gardened together, except when he got busy and didn't have time and she just did it. I can't remember that she ever complained, not then, not later, never."
"Maybe that explains his garden now," Darren said when she paused. "Making up for the times he didn't. Something like that."
"So we seek redemption. Maybe. I know he loves it. And he takes the time. When I was very small I wanted to be just like my mother. She was the perfect wife, perfect mother, a perfect role model."
"For someone else," Darren said. "Not for you."
Barbara laughed and sipped her wine. "Right. I'm opposite her in every possible way."
"Was she happy?"
"I think so. When I went through my teens I thought she was a patsy, a doormat.
Later I realized that she had what she wanted. She was indispensable to my father.
She tried hard to teach me how to cook, how to sew, how to become more feminine, I guess, but I failed her miserably and she accepted me exactly as I am. So of course I felt guilty for not trying harder, and ashamed." She shook her head and said almost brusquely, "Enough. What's going on at the clinic these days?"
He told her some of the current gossip. The conversation moved easily to other topics as they finished their meals. After the table had been cleared, the waiter brought the dessert menu. Barbara waved it away. "No way. Not another bite."
"Tiramisu," Darren said. "We'll share it. And coffee for two."
They ate the sinfully good dessert and drank their coffee in near silence. It was a perfect ending to their relationship, a good evening, good talk, nothing mean or hateful to regret later.
Not in the car, she decided as they drove back to her apartment. For once she would ask him in. The first time.
At her door, before she could find the right words, Darren said, "I want to come in with you. We have to talk."
"I know we do." She unlocked her door.
Inside her apartment she switched on a table lamp and dropped her purse and briefcase on a chair. He set her laptop down.
She drew in a long breath, then said, "Darren, this is hard, harder than—"
He put his finger on her lips. "Didn't your mother teach you to let the guest go first?"
He took her hand in a firm clasp. "You know I love you. I've loved you for a long time. I thought I could win with patience and cunning and good planning. I was wrong."
She tried to pull away, but his grip was firm and unyielding. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think I love you, too, but—"
He touched her lips again. "I'm not done," he said. "I think you love me, and I think if we got married we would both be happy for a time. It wouldn't last. Your sense of duty and responsibility would tear you apart. You would change. You're your mother's daughter, but also your father's child. And that mixture is the woman I love, not the one you might try to become. I don't want to change you in any way."
"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I love you but I can't marry you. I can't marry at all. I'm not the marrying kind, but you are. You need a stable relationship, companionship, everything a good marriage provides, and I can't do it. I'm selfish. I want my own life too much, my life, my work. I can't help it!"
He drew her close and held her, his cheek against her hair. "Don't define my needs,"
he said softly. "What I need is a deep, lifelong friendship. One that won't erode and turn bitter, trust and openness, someone I can confide in, who will confide in me.
Someone I can count on. Who will call me if I'm needed. That's what a real friend is all about. We can't have a conventional friendship. The girl next door, childhood friend, friends forever. That isn't for us. There's too much sexual tension between us. The air crackles with it. It would drive us both mad. Maybe it already is driving us mad."
She could feel hot tears gathering but he was holding her too tightly to wipe her eyes.
He loosened his hold and, keeping her hands in his, his gaze intense as he watched her face, he said, "Conventions say such a friendship must be platonic, but who wrote those rules? When have you ever accepted conventions as your guide? We can have the friendship we both need, without ties, without guilt, without being pulled apart in two directions, just an acceptance of each other. That's what I'm proposing, Barbara. A lifelong, very special friendship." He touched her cheek. "I've never seen you cry before. I want to make love to you."
Silently she nodded.