“You have a minute?” he asked.
She knew his answer was no. It was in his posture, in the somber expression on his face, the way he regarded her too politely. She headed his way, and when she reached his door, he stepped aside and let her pass, then closed the door behind them. Bailey Novell was slouched in a deep chair holding a drink.
“Hi, Barbara. How’re things?” He hauled himself up right and shook her hand.
“You’re looking good,” he said appraisingly.
“Thanks. And you?” He was a small man, hardly taller than Barbara, wiry, thin-faced, with sparse gray hair. His clothes were always baggy, as if he had bought them when he was twenty pounds heavier. Barbara had never known him to be heavier than he was, and most of the times she had seen him, he had been drinking something. It never mattered much what it was.
“Nothing changes. Same old grind.” He seemed to melt back into the chair.
“Tell her,” Frank said in a peremptory tone. He went to the wide window and stood with his back to them.
“Yeah, tell me. Bailey.” She took a matching chair and slumped almost as much as he did. Reaction, she understood, and also understood that she had not really expected the firm to support her, but there had been that little bit of hope that now was extinguished.
“Okay. I know a few people, you know?”
She knew.
“So I asked a couple of questions and got the general picture of the case the D.A.“s making, not the details, but generally. It’s really tight, Barbara. They don’t need more than they already got. See, Dodgson was out on his tractor cutting that field all morning. Lots of folks will testify to that. And you couldn’t get up that road without him seeing you. If that wasn’t enough, his old lady was taking a walk on the private road. I mean that side’s sewed up. The women were out looking for mushrooms in the woods across the field. Couldn’t get in without someone in that bunch spotting you. And right up until Kennerman went back to the house, two little girls were playing around the apple trees, and they would have seen anyone coming down from the woods, and nobody did. It’s good and tight. And even if it wasn’t, who else would have killed that kid? The husband was out fishing with buddies. You know, start of trout season.”
“The Dodgsons are unreliable witnesses,” Barbara said.
Bailey spread his hands. Without turning around, Frank said in a dry voice, “You can’t impeach their testimony because you don’t like them.”
“I can try,” she snapped.
“I told you Royce Gallead got onto that property without my seeing him. Someone else could have done it, too.”
“Gallead?” Bailey muttered.
“He’s mixed up in this?”
“No,” Frank said.
“Yes, he is,” Barbara said coldly.
“Up to his eyeballs.
Do you know him?” she asked Bailey.
“Sure. A gun nut. Said to be a mean one. You don’t want to stir him up, so they say. Doubt that he’s ever been charged with anything, or they’d take away his business, but there have been rumors of trouble.”
She nodded and stood up.
“Are you free? Have some time to do a few things?”
He glanced at Frank, who had not moved.
“You or the company?”
“Me.”
“I’m free, Barbara,” he said earnestly.
“But you know I got expenses, payroll to meet, stuff like that.
Who’s paying? Kennel-man’s got zilch, I understand.”
“I’m paying. But we’ll try to keep expenses down.
Okay?”
“I always keep them down,” he protested.
“Can you come over to my house around four? First I have^ to talk to Paula.”
“And I’m going home,” Frank said sharply. He marched from the room without a glance at her.
“Wow!” Bailey said.
“The old man’s really riled.”
Barbara shrugged. So was she.
“Look at it from his angle,” Bailey said.
“This is a downer case if there ever was one. You’ll be smeared by that Dodgson rag from here till Christmas. If you tangle with Gallead, that’s real trouble. And for what?
You know how many kids have been killed here in the county the last few years? Couple of dozen. People are pretty fed up; they’ll take it out on you. There’s no way you can get a jury that doesn’t already know in their hearts that Kennennan killed her kid. Go after Dodgson and he starts screaming freedom of the press. First Amendment, all that.”
“Am I paying for this time?” Barbara demanded.
Bailey grinned. It was a great big jack-o’lantern grin that used every muscle in his face and made wrinkles, channels, and gullies where they had not been before.
“Starting at four,” he said, saluting her with his glass.
Paula looked incredulous when Barbara asked if she wanted her to take the case.
“Yes! Oh, my God, yes!”
Then she said, “But I don’t have any money. Will the state pay you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Barbara said.
“So it’s going to be a very tight budget, and you should know that up front.”
Paula nodded.
“Mr. Fairchild is a nice man, but he can’t do much for me, not like you can. I’ll find a way to pay you someday.”
“Okay, that goes on the back burner. First, I have to instruct you about your options. I know the others did this, but I have to make certain you understand. What you have to do is listen carefully.” And she began.
When she was ready to leave, Barbara warned, “Don’t talk to anyone about our conferences—not Lucille, not anyone here, not anyone. Until we know where the leak is, we keep quiet. Agreed?” Paula nodded.
“And I want a list of everyone you can think of who ever saw you with Lori—baby-sitters, daycare people, people in the apartment complex. Whoever you can think of. And people who knew the relationship you and Jack had, how he was with Lori. Take your time with it and make it as complete as possible.”
“They won’t let me have a pencil or pen. Nothing sharp,” Paula said. She ducked her head. The bandages were off her wrists; red scars stood out vividly.
“Dr.
Grayling said I’ll be scarred. He’s sorry about it,” she whispered.
“Tell Dr. Grayling that I offered to defend you,” Barbara said.
“Tell him I need your help. I think he’ll see to it that you get a pen and paper.”
Paula nodded, rubbing her wrist lightly. She would be scarred, Barbara thought, more than she knew at the moment, and the worst scars would never be seen by anyone.
on her way home she stopped at a bookstore and bought a county road map and a U.S. Geological Survey map of the county. She was dismayed to see that it was dated 1983. The clerk said it was the latest one available.
When Barbara admitted Bailey at four, she had the map spread out on the kitchen table. Bailey glanced at the living room with a bland, neutral expression, but she knew he had taken an inventory.
“Coffee? Coke? That’s about all I have.”
He said Coke and followed her into the kitchen when she went to get it; they returned to the living room to sit down. There wasn’t enough room in her office for a guest and her.
“Here’s a list,” she said, handing it over.
“You know the kind of stuff. General background and immediate details.” He looked at it and whistled.
“I know,” she said.
“I know. So don’t let them know you’re prying.
Whatever you can find out about the Dodgsons—where they got the money for that house, a yacht, how they’re doing now. That little scandal sheet can’t pull in much.
What does? And same for Gallead. And Jack Kennerman. About Mrs. Canby, forget the money angle. Her 105 former husband inherited from his father, and made more. But is she involved in any way with Dodgson?
Who worked at the ranch for her, when, did anyone leave mad? Who was out there the day the house burned? Who was in charge and where is she now?”
This was all elementary, routine stuff, she was aware, but she didn’t know enough yet to ask for anything more specific.
“Gotcha,” Bailey said, and then asked, “What about Spassero? He’s in the public defender’s office, isn’t he?”
She hesitated only a second. Her father had always confided in Bailey, she knew; he said no one could do a complete job without the necessary information, and she had always agreed. She told Bailey about Bill Spassero and concluded, “He’s the source of the leaks, but why? What’s he up to? Who is he working for?”
She drew in a breath and went on to tell him about Royce Gallead, why he was on the list.
Bailey whistled.
“Barbara, does the old man know he threatened you?”
“No. Dad’s all the way out of this one. Keep it that way.”
Bailey had set his Coke down to take a few notes.
Now he lifted it and drank it all.
“Okay,” he said then.
“Let’s talk about money.”
She handed him a check for five thousand dollars;
she had called the bank to make the transfer first thing on arriving home. He stashed it away in his notebook and made out a receipt. They both knew five thousand would not last very long.
“One more thing,” she said.
“The map. Let me show you what I want.” They went to the kitchen table, where she pointed to a dark line she had drawn with a marker.
“This map is out of date, but it’s the most recent one there is. What I need is an aerial photograph of that portion in the outline. Can do?”
“Someone can do,” he said.
“See if he can do it without giving away what he’s up to, will you?”
“Barbara, how do you suggest hiding an airplane flying overhead taking pictures?”
“I bet he can, though.”
“It might mean more flying time, more money,” Bailey warned.
“I know,” she said with a sigh.
“I know.”
After Bailey left, she opened the road map, which seemed pitifully inadequate after the many details of the survey map. She studied the route she would take the next day.
For a moment she was tempted by the idea of driving to the coast, having a nice dinner, getting a motel room…. She shook her head.
When she drove past the firing range the next morning, there was the sound of gunfire as before, more of it this Saturday, and although she drove quite slowly, she could see little through the open gate: the low white concrete building, cars parked in front of it, and what seemed to be another fence. Customers had to go through the building to get to the range in back.
Farther up the road, the people who collected VW vans were in the yard today—half a dozen young people playing with a ball. Several looked up and waved.
She waved back.
Three more driveways led to small houses in small clearings. They all had people around. She turned onto a Forest Service road and within a hundred feet, still in sight of Spring Bay Road, she stopped. The road was too steep and rocky; it would take a four-wheel-drive to navigate. She backed out and went back the way she had come.
Although she was watching closely as the meadow yielded to forest off Farieigh Road, she was unable to tell where the Canby property ended. Apparently Mrs.
Canby did not like fences or keep our signs. Then she spotted the second logging road, which was the southern boundary of the property, and made the turn.
This was impossible, she knew after only two or three hundred feet. The road had not been maintained even minimally, and the winter rains had worked at un doing what the graders had done. The dirt road was deeply rutted in places, overgrown with seedling fir trees, vine maples, brambles. Now, in the middle of June, it was dry, but in April … She ignored the growing disquietude enveloping her and began to back out.
One more, she thought grimly as she drove again, this time to the blacktop road that led to the Canby driveway and beyond. The asphalt stopped fifteen or twenty feet past the Canby driveway, and a dirt road curved out of sight in a steep grade. Barbara stopped her car and brooded. In April the ground would have been saturated, that dirt road would have been like a sliding board. If any vehicle had driven up there, it would have been known immediately by anyone who glanced that way, and as soon as an arson fire was suspected, investigators would have been all over the scene. Maybe they did know, she thought then, and reluctantly got out of the car. She could have driven, but the thought of backing down again was more than she wanted to contemplate; she locked her car and started to walk. The curve followed a rock outcropping; immediately after the curve the road was blocked by fallen rocks. She could walk around them easily enough, but no car could have gone by. She sat on a boulder and stared into the dense woods.
He could have come up here Friday night, she thought, slept in the car, waited for a chance on Saturday to get to the house…. After he killed the child and started the fire, he could have gone back to the car. He had plenty of time that morning to smooth out any marks he had left on the dirt road. And he could have waited until everyone was gone, the fire equipment out, the occupants transported somewhere else. He could have waited until dark, and then backed down, turned in the Canby drive, and left. She made a note to herself to check the weather for the days following the murder. Rain could have obliterated any tracks easier than a man could have done.
Or he could have parked down on Farleigh Road and walked in through the woods, easily avoiding the women looking for mushrooms.
Or, she told herself, standing up, he could have parked down in Lewiston and walked here. It wasn’t that far, a couple of miles. But how had he known about gas in the barn? Would that be a given? Farm—mowers, tillers, other equipment—equals gas in the barn?
She returned to her car and went home feeling out of sorts, as if she was wasting time that was irreplaceable and precious.
On her answering machine was a message from Grace Canby. Barbara listened to it twice.
“Ms. Holloway, this is Grace Canby. It is two-thirty in the afternoon, Satur day. Will you please give me a call? I’ll be in the rest of the afternoon, or tomorrow all day.” She gave her number and hung up.
Barbara called the number, and Mrs. Canby answered the second ring. After Barbara introduced herself, Mrs.
Canby said very coolly, “Ms. Holloway, it was brought to my attention earlier today that you are representing yourself as being in my employ. If, indeed, you are doing this, you must stop immediately, or I shall be forced to consult my attorney.”