by Sue Grafton
There was no possibility of sleep. The phone began to make plaintive little sounds as though it were sick, so I replaced the receiver and disconnected the instrument at the jack. I left my clothes on as I had the night before, pulling the spread over me for warmth. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling while I listened to muffled noises through the wall: a cough, a toilet flushing. The pipes clanked and groaned like a clan of ghosts. Gradually, sunlight replaced the streetlights and I became aware that I was drifting in and out of consciousness. At seven I gave it up, dragged myself into the shower, and used up my allotment of hot water.
I tried the Ocean Street Cafe for breakfast, downing cups of black coffee with the local paper propped up in front of me so I could eavesdrop on the regulars. Faces were beginning to look familiar. The woman who ran the Laundromat was sitting at the counter, next to Ace, who was getting ragged again about his ex-wife, Betty, seated on his other side. There were two other men I recognized from Pearl's.
I was in a booth near the front, facing the plate-glass windows, with a view of the beach. Joggers were trotting along the wet-packed sand. I was too tired to do a run myself, though it might have perked me up. Behind me, the customers were chatting together as they probably had every day for years.
"Where you think he's at?"
"Lord only knows. I hope he's left the state. He's dangerous."
"They better catch him quick is all I can say. I'll shoot his ass if I see him anywheres around here."
"I bet he's got you peekin' under your bed at night."
"I peek every night. 'At's the only thrill I get. I keep hopin' to find somebody peekin' back at me." The laughter was shrill, underscored with anxiety.
"I'll come over there and help you out."
"Big help you'd be."
"I would. I got me a pistol," Ace said.
" 'At's not what Betty says."
"Yeah, he's loaded half the time, but that don't mean his pistol works."
"Bailey Fowler shows his face, you'll see different," Ace said.
"Not if I get him first," one of the other men said.
The front page of the local newspaper was a rehash of the case to date, but the tone of the coverage was picking up heat. Photographs of Bailey. Photographs of Jean. An old news photo of the crime scene, townspeople standing in the background. The faces in the crowd were blurred and indistinct, seventeen years younger than they looked today. Jean's body, barely visible, was covered with a blanket. Trampled sand. Concrete steps going up on the right. There was a quote from Quintana, who sounded pompous even then. Probably bucking for sheriff since he joined the department. He seemed like the type.
I wolfed down my breakfast and went back to the motel.
As I went up the outside stairs, I saw one of the maids knocking on the door of room 20. Her cart was parked nearby, loaded with fresh linens, vacuum cleaner mounted on the back.
"Maid service," she called. No answer.
She was short, heavyset, a gold-capped tooth showing when she smiled. Her passkey didn't turn in the lock so she moved on to the room I'd been in before Bert had so graciously consented to the change. I let myself into room 24 and closed the door.
My bed was a tumble of covers that beckoned invitingly. I was buzzing from coffee, but under the silver shimmer of caffeine my body was leaden from weariness. The maid knocked at my door. I abandoned all hope of sleep and let her in. She moved into the bathroom, a plastic bucket in hand, filled with rags and supplies. Nothing feels so useless as hanging around while someone else cleans. I went down to the office.
Ori was behind the counter, clinging shakily to her walker while she sorted through the bills Bert had left in the box for outgoing mail. She was wearing a cotton duster over her hospital gown.
Ann called from the other room. "Mother! Where are you? God..."
"I'm right here!"
Ann appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing? I told you I want to do your blood test before I go up to see Pop." She caught sight of me and smiled, her dark mood gone. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Ann."
Ori was leaning heavily on Ann's supporting arm as she began to shuffle into the living room.
"You need some help?" I asked.
"Would you please?"
I slipped under the counter, supporting Ori on the other side. Ann moved the walker out of her mother's path and together we walked her back to the bed.
"Do you have to go to the bathroom while you're up?"
"I guess I best," she said.
We did a slow walk to the bathroom. Ann got her settled on the commode and then stepped into the hall, closing the door.
I glanced at Ann. "Could I ask you a couple of questions about Jean while I've got you here?"
"All right," she said.
"I took a look at her school records yesterday and I noticed that you were one of the counselors who worked with her. Can you tell me what those sessions were about?"
"Her attendance, primarily. The four of us did academic counseling-college prep requirements, dropping or adding classes. If a kid didn't get along with a teacher or wasn't performing up to snuff, we'd step in and test sometimes, or settle disputes, but that was the extent of it. Jean was obviously in trouble scholastically and we talked about the fact that it was probably connected to her home life, but I don't think any of us actually felt qualified to play shrink. We might have recommended she see a psychologist, but I know I didn't try to function with her in that capacity."
"What about her relationship to the family? She hung out here quite a bit, didn't she?"
"Well, yes. During the time she and Bailey dated."
"I get the impression both your parents were fond of her."
"Absolutely. Which only made it awkward when I tried to approach her professionally at school. In some ways, the ties were too close to permit any objectivity."
"Did she ever confide in you as a friend?" Ann frowned. "I didn't encourage it. Sometimes she complained about Bailey – if the two of them weren't getting along – but after all, he was my brother. I was hardly going to jump in and take her side. I don't know. Maybe I should have made more of an effort with her. I've often asked myself that."
"What about other faculty or staff? Anybody else she might have confided in?"
She shook her head. "Not that I ever knew." We heard the toilet flush. Ann stepped back into the bathroom while I waited in the hall. When Ori emerged, we maneuvered her back into the living room.
She shrugged off her duster and then we struggled to get her into bed. She must have weighed two hundred eighty pounds, all ropey fat, her skin paper white. She smelled fusty and I had to make a conscious effort not to register my distaste.
Ann began to assemble alcohol, cotton wipe, and lancet. If I had to watch this procedure again, I'd pass out.
"Mind if I use the phone?"
Ori spoke up. "I need to keep this line free for business."
"Try the one in the kitchen," Ann said. "Dial nine first."
I left the room.
Chapter 21
* * *
From the kitchen, I tried Shana Timberlake's number, but got no answer. Maybe I'd stop by her place again in a bit. I intended to press her for information when I caught up with her. She held a big piece of the puzzle, and I couldn't let her off the hook. The telephone book was on the kitchen counter. I looked up Dr. Dunne's office number and tried that next. A nursey-sounding woman picked up on the other end. "Family practice," she said.
"Oh, hi. Is Dr. Dunne in the office yet?" I'd been told he was out until Monday. My business was with her.
"No, I'm sorry. This is Doctor's day at the clinic in Los Angeles. Can I be of help?"
"I hope so," I said. "I was a patient of his some years ago and I need records of the illness I was seeing him for. Can you tell me how I'd go about getting those?"
Ann came into the kitchen and moved to the refrigerator, where she removed the glass vial of insulin and stood rolling it in her pal
ms to warm it.
"When would this have been?"
"Uhm, oh gee, 1966 actually."
"I'm sorry, but we don't keep records that far back. We consider a file inactive if you haven't seen Doctor in five years. After seven years, records are destroyed."
Ann left the room. I'd miss the injection altogether if I strung this out long enough.
"And that's true even if a patient is deceased?" I asked.
"Deceased? I thought it was your medical records we were talking about," she said. "Could I have your name please?"
I hung up. So much for Jean Timberlake's old medical chart. Frustrating. I hate dead ends. I returned to the living room.
I hadn't stalled long enough.
Ann was peering at the syringe, holding it needle up, while she tapped to make sure there were no bubbles in the pale, milky insulin. I eased toward the door, trying to be casual about it. She looked up as I passed. "I forgot to ask, did you see Pop yesterday?"
"I stopped by late afternoon, but he was asleep. Did he ask for me again?" I tried to look every place, but at her.
"They called this morning," she said irritably. "He's raising all kinds of hell. Knowing him, he wants out." She swiped alcohol on the bald flesh on her mother's thigh.
I fumbled in my handbag for a Kleenex as she plunged the needle home. Ori visibly jumped. My hands were clammy and my head was already feeling light.
"He's probably making everybody's life miserable." She was blabbing on, but the sound was beginning to fade. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her break the needle off the disposable syringe, dropping it in the wastebasket. She began to clean up cotton wads, the paper from the lancet. I sat down on the couch.
She paused, a look of concern crossing her face. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just feel like sitting down," I murmured. I'm sure death creeps up on you just this way, but what was I going to say? I'm a bad-ass private eye who swoons in the same room with a needle? I smiled at her pleasantly to show I was okay. Darkness was crowding my peripheral vision.
She went on about her business, heading toward the kitchen to return the insulin. The minute she left the room, I hung my head down between my knees. They say it's impossible to faint while you're doing this, but I've managed it more than once. I glanced at Ori, apologetically. She was moving her legs restlessly, unwilling, as usual, to concede that anybody might feel worse than she did. I was trying not to hyperventilate. The creeping darkness receded. I sat up and fanned myself as if this was just something I did every day.
"I don't feel good," she said. She scratched at her arm, her manner agitated. What a pair we made. Apparently her mythical rash was acting up again and I was going to have to make a medical evaluation. I sent her a wan smile, which I could feel turning to perplexity. She was wheezing now, a little mewing sound coming from her throat as she clawed at her arm. She looked at me with alarm through thick glasses that magnified the fear in her eyes.
"Oh Lord," she rasped. "It couldn't..." Her face was ashen, swelling visibly, hot pink welts forming on her neck.
"What is it, Ori? Can I get you anything?" Her distress was accelerating so quickly I couldn't take it in. I crossed to the bed and then yelled toward the kitchen. "Ann, could you come in here? Something's wrong."
"Be right there," she called. I could tell from her tone I hadn't conveyed any sense of urgency. "Ann! For God's sake, get in here!" Suddenly I knew where I'd seen this before. When I was eight and went to Donnie Dixon's birthday party next door. He was stung by a yellow jacket and was dead before his mother reached the backyard.
Ori's hands went to her throat, her eyes rolling wildly, sweat popping out. It was clear she wasn't getting air. I tried to help, but there was nothing I could do. She grabbed for me like a drowning woman, clutching my arm with such force that I thought she'd tear off a hunk of flesh.
"Now what?" Ann said.
She appeared in the doorway, wearing an expression that was a mix of indulgence and irritation at her mother's latest bid for attention. She paused, blinking as she tried to assimilate the sight before her. "What in the world? Mother, what's wrong? Oh my God!"
I don't think more than two minutes had passed since the attack began. Ori was convulsing, and I could see a flood of urine spread along the bedding under her. The sounds she made were none that I had ever heard from a human being.
Ann's panic was a singing note that rose from low in her throat. She snatched up the phone, fumbling in her haste. By the time she had dialed 911, Ori's body was bucking as if someone were administering electric shock treatments.
It was clear the 911 dispatcher had picked up the call. I could hear a tiny female voice buzz across the room like a fly. Ann tried to respond, but the words turned into a scream as she caught sight of her mother's face. I was frantically trying CPR techniques, but I knew there wasn't any point.
Ori was still, her eyes wide and blank. She was already beyond medical help. I looked at the clock automatically for time of death. It was 9:06. I took the phone out of Ann's hand and asked for the police.
About 20 percent of all people die under circumstances that would warrant an official inquiry into the cause of death. The burden of determining cause and manner of death usually falls to the first police officer to appear on the scene. In this case, Quintana must have been alerted to the call because within thirty minutes the Fowlers' living quarters had been taken over by sheriff's department personnel: Detective Quintana and his partner, whose name I still didn't know, the coroner, a photographer, two evidence techs, a fingerprint tech, three deputies securing the area, and an ambulance crew waiting patiently until the body could be removed. Any matter related to Bailey Fowler was going to be subject to official scrutiny. Ann and I had been separated shortly after the first county sheriff's car arrived. Clearly, no one wanted us to confer. They were taking no chances. For all they knew, we'd just conspired in the murder of Ori Fowler. Of course, if we'd been brash enough to kill her, you'd think we'd also have been smart enough to get our stories straight before we called the cops. Maybe it was only a question of making sure we didn't contaminate each other's account of events.
Ann, wan and shaken, sat in the dining room. She had wept briefly and without conviction while the coroner went through the motions of listening for Ori's heart. Now she was subdued, answering in low tones as Quintana questioned her. She seemed numbed by circumstance. I'd seen the reaction countless times when death is too sudden to be convincing to those most affected by it. Later, when the finality of the event sinks in, grief breaks through in a noisy torrent of rage and tears.
Quintana flicked a look in my direction as I passed the door. I was on my way to the kitchen, escorted by a female deputy whose law-enforcement paraphernalia must have added ten inches to her waist measurement; heavy belt, portable two-way radio, nightstick, handcuffs, keys, flashlight, ammunition, gun and holster. I was reminded uncomfortably of my own days in uniform. It's hard to feel feminine in a pair of pants that make you look like a camel from the rear.
I took a seat at the kitchen table. I kept my face neutral, trying to act as if I wasn't sucking in every detail of the crime scene activity. I was frankly relieved to be out of sight of Ori, who was beached in death like an old sea lion washed up on the sand. She couldn't even be cold yet, but her skin was already suffused with the bleached, mottled look of decay. In the absence of life, the body seems to deteriorate before your very eyes. An illusion, of course – perhaps the same optical trickery that makes the dead appear to breathe.
Ann must have told them about injecting the insulin, because an evidence technician came into the kitchen within minutes and removed the vial of insulin, which he bagged and labeled. Unless the local labs were a lot more sophisticated than usual in a town this size, the insulin, plus all the samples of Ori's blood, urine, gastric content, bile, and viscera would probably be shipped off to the state crime lab in Sacramento for analysis. Cause of death was almost certainly anaphylactic shock. Th
e question was, what had triggered it? Surely not the insulin after all these years – unless somebody'd tampered with the vial, a not unreasonable guess. Death might have been accidental, but I doubted it.
I looked over to the back door, where the thumb latch on the lock had been turned to the open position. From what I'd seen, the motel office was seldom secured. Windows were left open, doors unlocked. When I thought back to all the people who'd been trooping through the place, it seemed clear that anybody could have sauntered over to the refrigerator for a peek. Ori's diabetes was common knowledge, and her insulin dependency was the perfect means of delivering a fatal dose of who-knew-what. Ann's administering the injection would only add guilt to her grief, a cruel postscript. I was curious as to what Detective Quintana was going to make of it.
As if on cue, he ambled into the kitchen and took a seat at the table across from me. I wasn't looking forward to a chat with him. Like many cops, he took up more than his share of psychological space. Being with him was like being in a crowded elevator, stuck between floors. Not an experience you seek out.
"Let's hear how you tell it," he said.
To give him credit, he seemed more compassionate than he had before, perhaps in deference to Ann. I launched into my account with all the candor I could muster. I had nothing to hide, and there wasn't any point in playing games with the man. I started with the telephone harassment in the dead of night and proceeded to the moment when I'd taken the receiver from Ann and asked for the police. He took careful notes, printing rapidly in a style that mimicked an italic typeface. By the time he finished quizzing me, I found myself trusting his thoroughness and his attention to detail. He flipped his notebook closed and tucked it in his coat pocket.
"I'm going to need a list of the people who've been in and out of here the last couple of days. I'd appreciate your help with that. Also, Miss Fowler says the family doctor isn't in the office on Fridays. So, you might keep an eye on her. She looks like she's one step away from collapse. Frankly, you don't look all that hot yourself," he said.