F is for FUGITIVE

by Sue Grafton

  “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. The 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 wi
th 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.

  “Nothing that a month of sleep won’t cure.”

  “Give me a call if anything comes up.”

  He gave instructions to the deputy in charge. By the time he left, much of the dusting, bagging, tagging, and picture-taking was finished and the CSI team was packing up. I found Ann still seated at the dining room table. Her gaze traveled to my face when I entered the room, but she registered no response.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  No reply.

  I sat down next to her. I would have taken her hand, but she didn’t seem like the type you could touch without asking permission first. “I know Quintana must have asked you this, but did your mother have allergies?”

  “Penicillin,” she said dully. “I remember she had a very bad reaction to penicillin once.”

  “What other medications was she taking?’

  Ann shook her head. “Just what’s on the bed table, and her insulin, of course. I don’t understand what happened.”

  “Who knew about the allergy?”

  Ann started to speak and then shook her head.

  “Did Bailey know?”

  “He would never do such a thing. He couldn’t have…”

  “Who else?”

  “Pop. The doctor…”

  “Dunne?”

  “Yes. She was in his office when she had the first bad reaction.”

  “What about John Clemson? Is his the pharmacy she uses?”

  She nodded.

  “People from the church?”

  “I suppose. She didn’t make a secret of it, and you know her. Always talking about her illnesses…” She blinked and I saw her face suffuse with pink. Her mouth tightened, turning downward as the tears welled in her eyes.

  “I’m going to call someone to come sit with you. I’ve got things to do. You have a preference? Mrs. Emma? Mrs. Maude?”

  She curled in on herself and laid her cheek against the tabletop as if she might go to sleep. Instead she wept, tears splashing onto the polished wood surface like hot wax. “Oh God, Kinsey. I did it. I can’t believe it. I actually stood there and injected the stuff. How am I going to live with that?”

  I didn’t know what to say to her.

  I went back into the living room, avoiding the sight of the bed, which was empty now, linens stripped off and carted away with the rest of the physical evidence. Who knew what they might find in the bedding? An asp, a poisonous spider, a suicide note shoved down among the dirty sheets.

  I called Mrs. Maude and told her what had happened. After we went through the obligatory expressions of shock and dismay, she said she’d be right over. She’d probably make a few quick telephone calls first, rounding up the usual members of the Family Crisis Squad. I could practically hear them crushing up potato chips for the onslaught of tuna casseroles.

  As soon as she’d arrived and taken over responsibility for the office, I went upstairs to my room, locked the door, and sat down on the bed. Ori’s death was confusing. I couldn’t figure out what it meant or how it could possibly fit in. Fatigue was pressing down on me like an anvil, nearly crushing me with its weight. I knew I couldn’t afford to go to sleep, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could go on.

  The phone shrilled beside me. I hoped to God it wasn’t going to be another threat. “Hello?”

  “Kinsey, it’s me. What the hell is going on?”

  “Bailey, where are you?”

  “Tell me what happened to my mother.”

  I told him what I knew, which didn’t sound like much. He was silent for so long I thought he’d hung up. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I m here.”

  “I’m sorry. Really. You never even got to see her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bailey, do me a favor. You have to turn yourself in.”

  “I’m not going to do that till I know what’s going on.”

  “Listen to me ���”

  “Forget it!”

  “Goddamn it, just hear me out. Then you can do anything you want. As long as you’re on the street, you’re going to take the blame for whatever happens. Can’t you see that? Tap gets blown to hell and you take off like a shot. Next thing you know, your mother’s dead, too.”

  “You know I didn’t do it.”

  “Then turn yourself in. If you’re in custody, at least you can’t be blamed if something else goes wrong.”

  Silence. Finally he said, “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t like this shit.”

  “I don’t either. I hate it. Look, just do this. Call Clemson and see what he has to say.”

  “I know what he’ll say.”

  “Then take his advice and do the smart thing for once!” I banged the phone down.

  Chapter 22

  *

  I had to get some air. I locked the door behind me and left the motel. I crossed the street and sat down on the sea wall, staring down at the stretch of beach where Jean Timberlake had died. Behind me, Floral Beach was laid out in miniature, six streets long, three streets wide. It bothered me somehow that the town was so small. It had all happened right here in the space of these eighteen blocks. The very sidewalks, the buildings, the local businesses ��� it all must have been much the same back then. The townspeople were no different. Some had moved away, a few had died. In the time I’d been here, I’d probably talked to the killer myself at least once. It was an affront somehow. I turned and looked back at the section of town that I could see. I wondered if someone in one of the little pastel cottages across the street had seen anything that night. How desperate could I get? I was actually contemplating a door-to-door canvass of the citizens of Floral Beach.

  But I had to do something. I glanced at my watch. It was after one o’clock. Tap Granger’s funeral service was scheduled for two. He’d have a good turnout. The locals had talked of little else since he was gunned down. Who was going to miss this climactic event?

  I crossed back to the motel, where I picked up my car and drove a block and a half to Shana Timberlake’s. She’d been out when I’d called this morning, but she’d have to be home now and dressing for Tap’s funeral if she intended to go. I pulled in across the street. The little wood-frame cottages in her courtyard had all the charm of army barracks. Still no Plymouth in the driveway. Her front curtains were still as they had been before. Two days’ worth of newspapers were now piled near the porch. I knocked at her door, and when I got no response, I slyly tried the knob. Still locked.

  An old woman stood on the porchlet of the cottage next door. She watched me with the baggy eyes of a beagle hound.

  “Do you know where Shana went?”

  “What?”

  “Is Shana here?”

  She gestured impatiently, turned away, and banged back into her place. I couldn’t tell if she was mad because she couldn’t hear me or because she didn’t give a damn what Shana did. I shrugged and left the front porch, walking between the two cottages to the rear.

  Everything looked the same, except that some animal ��� a dog, or maybe a raccoon ��� had tipped over her garbage cans and spread her trash around. Very classy stuff. I climbed the porch steps and peered in the kitchen window as I had before. It see
med clear that Shana hadn’t been home for days. I tried the back door, wondering if there was any reason to break in. I couldn’t think of one. It is, after all, against the law, and I don’t like to do it unless I can anticipate some benefit.

  As I went down the steps, I noticed a square white envelope among the papers littering the yard. The same one I’d been sniffing at the other day when I talked to her? I picked it up. Empty. Shoot. Gingerly, I began to sort through the garbage. And there it was. The card was a reproduction of a still life, an oil painting of opulent roses in a vase. There was no printed message, but inside, somebody had penned “Sanctuary. 2:00. Wed.” Whom could she have met with? Bob Haws? June? I tucked the card in my handbag and drove over to the church.

  The Floral Beach Baptist Church (Floral Beach’s only church, if you want to get technical) was located at the corner of Kaye and Palm streets ��� a modest-sized white frame structure with various outbuildings attached. A concrete porch ran the width of the main building, with white columns supporting the composition roof. One thing about the Baptists, they’re not going to waste the congregation’s money on some worthless architect. I’d seen this particular church design several times before, and I pictured ecclesiastical blueprints making the rounds for the price of the postage. A florist’s truck was parked out on the street, probably delivering arrangements for the funeral.

  The double doors were standing open and I went inside. There were several paint-by-the-numbers-style stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus in an ankle-length nightgown that would get him stoned to death in this town. The apostles had arranged themselves at his feet, looking up at him like curly haired women with simpering expressions. Did guys really shave back then? As a child, I never could get anybody to answer questions like that.

  The interior walls were white, the floor covered in beige linoleum tile. The pews were decorated with black satin bows. Tap Granger’s coffin had been placed down near the front. I could tell Joleen had been talked into paying more than she could afford, but that’s a tough pitch to resist when you’re in the throes of grief. The cheapest coffin in the showroom is inevitably a peculiar shade of mauve and looks as if it’s been sprayed with the same stuff they use on acoustic ceilings to cut the sound.