[Barbara Holloway 02] - The Best Defense

by Kate Wilhelm

  She was a plump, birdlike woman, with a comfortable bosom rounding out her front, and a comfortable bottom balancing her nicely. Her daughter didn’t want her to keep working, she said, but she couldn’t just sit around, could she? She had a pair of professors now, she said, pointing to chairs for Barbara and Frank, settling herself on a small sofa covered with a handmade quilt. “Four days a week, not hard work, but they’re messy—papers and books everywhere, and none of it can be touched. Not easy to clean around papers and books,” she said with a nod. Then she asked, “Why did you want to see me? I already told everything I know about the fire and that poor little girl, and what I know is as near nothing as you can get.”

  She needed little prompting when Barbara said vaguely, “Just background information. What was it like working for the Dodgsons?”

  “Oh, them,” Mrs. Melrose said with a sniff. “They weren’t easy, believe me. Once when I was about five minutes late, not my fault, but a wreck on the road in front of me— why, I thought they’d fire me on the spot. Eleven to eight, my hours, and they wanted me there at eleven sharp.”

  It was a repeat of what Angela Everts had said: they were fastidious and made a fuss out of every little detail they thought wasn’t exactly right.

  “But I’m a good housekeeper,” she said complacently. “They never found much to fuss about.”

  The name Royce Gallead meant nothing to her, except that she had seen his sign every day on her way to work. She never set eyes on the man, she declared positively.

  Gradually Barbara steered the conversation to the Satur-

  day she wanted to hear about. Mrs. Melrose told them she always drove around to the side of the house and went in the back door. She didn’t see anyone that day. “It was like most Saturdays, except she left me a note to clean the refrigerator. She left me notes the days she wasn’t going to be there, but not usually on Saturday. Lot of nonsense that was. I always cleaned the fridge on Tuesday and it didn’t need a thing. But I got right at it. I knew they’d come in sniffing around to make sure I did.”

  “Was the door open to the pool room when you got there? Could you see it?”

  “No, you can’t see it down that hall, but it was open. Chlorine smell all through the hall, and the music was just blasting out.”

  “And then what? You were cleaning the refrigerator, but you went out to see what was happening? What made you suspect anything was happening?”

  “The music stopped, and I heard Angela on the phone yelling at the fire department man. That was a surprise, I tell you, her going in the front door, tracking in dirt and all. I guess she never gave it a thought.” She didn’t wait for a question this time. “Well, she finished on the telephone and told me, and then she ran out. And Mrs. Dodgson told Craig to go get some clothes on, and she said she would get dressed, and she said as soon as I got done in the kitchen I might as well go on home. She was too upset for anyone to be messing around all day, she said.”

  “Was Craig in the white robe then?”

  “Yes, he was. A hundred dollars that robe cost them. Can you believe it? He came out of the pool and put it on, I guess, and he was standing in the hall in front of the door to the pool. Closed it first, but too late; the smell was already out. And he was dripping water down his hair. He went across the rug to his room in his wet bare feet and I thought she’d tell me to vacuum out his footprints, but she didn’t, and it wouldn’t have done no good anyway, what with all the other footprints already there.”

  “Then what?” Barbara prompted.

  “Nothing. I went back to the kitchen and finished up, and I checked the dressing room to pick up towels and stuff, but there weren’t any, and I went home.”

  “Nothing was disturbed in the dressing room? Were Craig’s clothes in there?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “How long after that did you quit?”

  “I didn’t quit. Oh, I threatened to many a time, but they were gone most days, and I liked the hours, being away when the kids are here at supper. They’re good kids, but they can get loud, you understand? Anyway, on Tuesday—I never worked on Sundays or Mondays there—so when I got there Tuesday, he, Mr. Dodgson, met me in the kitchen and grabbed my arm and steered me right to the pool, yelling like a maniac. Look what you did! he was screeching. One of those gallon plastic jugs that floor stripper comes in was floating in the water. He said the water was ruined, they’d have to have the pool pumped out and cleaned, and it was my fault. He said I didn’t go on home like Mrs. Dodgson told me to, that I was in there messing around and knocked over that jug. But I didn’t.”

  “You left right away? You didn’t stay at all?”

  “Oh, I left, all right. I told him what he could do with his temper fits and his pickiness, and, I guess, a few other things that don’t come to mind right now.” She looked quite self-satisfied.

  Barbara asked a few more questions about what she had seen or heard that day, and listened to her for another hour.

  In the car again, driving to the Canby Ranch, she said grumpily, “So, if the Dodgsons and Gallead didn’t want to broadcast that they were associates, they wouldn’t be seen together. All right?”

  Frank did not say a word.

  At the Canby private road she got out near the pond and watched her father’s car as it continued up the road. From here, at this time of year, she could not see past the rushes and cattails, which were high, far over her head. She walked up the road until she could see the barn, and stopped almost even with the no trespassing sign. Frank had stopped at the Canby driveway, and he walked up the road and vanished almost instantly, hidden by the trees. She did not see him again until he appeared at the car once more, stepped over the log barrier, and started toward the house site. There, too, as soon as he got past the car, he vanished. Slowly she walked up the private road, pausing only long enough to look at the padlock on the gate to the Dodgson driveway. A shallow ditch was on each side of the driveway, bone-dry now, but no doubt little rivulets in the spring. She met Frank at the site of the burned house.

  Silently she walked to the edge of the woods and kept going until she was near the end of the barn, not far from the orchard. Nowhere along the walk would she have been able to see anyone leaving the house by the back door, she realized. Shrubbery, the house itself, the barn, all would have been in the way.

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked when she returned and opened the car door to get in.

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “Nothing.” But she knew she would have to tell him that she had just blown her own scenario. Gallead wouldn’t have been able to see when the coast was clear.

  It was nearly three when they got back home. They had stopped for lunch, and now Frank said he was going to take a nap. She turned on the answering machine, and they both froze when Bailey’s voice drawled, “Reeling him in. We’ll be there about ten. You’ll need an interpreter. See you.” Barbara let out a long breath.

  “What kind of interpreter?” she muttered. “Where are they? Why ten?”

  “Good God, Bobby, relax! If you can’t relax, run up and down the stairs a few times—with your shoes off.” He went down the hall to his room and closed the door.

  Interpreter, interpreter, she repeated to herself, walking through the first-floor rooms as she thought of who it would be. Roberto, she decided, the young man who was learning how to make false teeth. She phoned him, then went upstairs to the room her father had designated her office by putting a desk, a chair, and a file cabinet in it. It was a fine office, she had to admit, and then forgot about it as she began a methodical review of her case.

  She was jolted when her father said from her open door, “You didn’t hear a thing, did you? For God’s sake, Bobby, leave it be for a while. It’s nearly six. Let’s talk about dinner over a glass of wine. Downstairs.” He turned and walked away.

  After restacking some papers, she went down. “Dad, you really don’t have to baby-sit me,” she said, accepting a glass of wine. “I mean, I’ve
lived all these years without starving myself.”

  “Someone has to watch over you,” he said in a growly voice. “When I was in your state, your mother watched over me like a hen with one chick to guard. She saw to it that I ate, slept, washed. She reminded me to shave. I know where you’re at because I’ve been there.”

  Barbara had a flash of memory of how her mother had looked after him, shielding him at times from his only child. How jealous that child, Barbara, had been.

  “Every man needs a good wife,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s got nothing to do with male/female roles. When one sees the need, he or she tends to it, and the other one accepts. With a pretense of graciousness, if that’s possible.”

  “What would it be like to be married to another attorney, with two cases going at the same time?”

  “One of them better be making enough money to hire a nanny who’d see to both of them. Scrub them, feed them, remind them to brush their teeth, and then get out of the way.”

  She laughed. “So let’s go out somewhere. And you’ll tell me the story about when you were threatened by someone in a case you were handling.”

  “I will not. My stories are too good to waste on someone who’s only half-listening.”

  He took her to an Italian restaurant, and when they returned home at eight forty-five, he said, “Well, at least you’ve been well fed with decent food even if you don’t know what it was, and didn’t taste a bite.”

  Roberto arrived at nine-thirty. He was lankier than she remembered, and he looked embarrassed and shy when she greeted him at the door and introduced him to her father. In the study, Roberto said, “Barbara, we all miss you. A bunch of us were in Martin’s place, and we made a committee so when they clean up your house and get it fixed again, we’ll patrol, not the cops, not anyone else. We’ll do it, our committee. You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. As soon as I can. You didn’t tell anyone this address, or that you were seeing me, did you?”

  “No! Not even my mother. You say tell no one, I tell no one. Like that.”

  “Thanks. Now, how about something to drink? A Coke, wine, coffee, beer …” He said coffee would be nice, and she left to make a pot. When she returned, he was talking earnestly to Frank about the need to have a trade, a life-long profession.

  At five after ten Bailey arrived with Miguel Torres, who was carrying a canvas duffel bag. Bailey looked exhausted. He introduced his companion, who smiled and said not a word. “Drove down from an orchard out of Hood River,” Bailey said. “We stopped to eat. He’s okay; he slept most of the way, but I need some shut-eye. He’ll want a place to sleep.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” Frank said. “Does he speak any English?”

  “Not that you’d notice. He’s a good guy, take care of him. I’m off. I’ll call tomorrow.” Frank went to the door with him.

  “Senor Torres,” Barbara said, “porfavor…” She pointed to a chair.

  He smiled and sat down. “Gracias, senorita.” He was muscular, in his thirties, and very dark.

  “Roberto, ask him if he’d like something to drink, or wants to use the bathroom. You know.”

  There was a swift exchange of musical language and Roberto said no, Miguel was comfortable. “He says you’re very beautiful,” he added. Roberto could hardly contain his excitement at his role in this adventure; his cheeks blazed and his eyes flashed.

  Barbara felt her cheeks go hot, and Miguel’s smile broadened. Roberto spoke at some length, now sounding like a teacher or a parent, and Miguel’s expression changed to one of respect.

  “What are you telling him?” Barbara demanded.

  “I told him about you,” he said proudly. “He didn’t understand why you were being so friendly, why you were talking instead of Mr. Holloway. Now he does.”

  She had Roberto explain that they would pay Miguel, and they would see to it that he had a place to sleep. And she wanted to tape-record the conversation. The exchanges became longer. He wanted to know why, Roberto said.

  “Good,” Barbara said to Frank. “He’s sensible and intelligent.” At her words, she caught a gleam of understanding in Miguel’s eyes. “You can understand some English, can’t you?”

  He nodded and held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Little,” he said.

  She suspected it was more than just a little, but she nodded and said to Roberto, “We think the man who hired him was engaged in an illegal activity. We don’t think the men he hired are involved, but we need information. That’s all, just information.”

  Presently they had the tape recorder working and Miguel, through Roberto, was answering questions.

  He had been hired, he said, by a man in his village who explained that the gringo wanted four men to work for three or four days, that there would be a long drive first and they would be required to stay in the truck. The gringo wanted men who had no English; he was very firm about that. Miguel had no English, he said with a little shrug, and he needed the money. He had a wife and three children and no job. The gringo paid a hundred dollars a day, including the travel time.

  When they got there, they had a big room with cots and showers, and plenty of food. They cooked for themselves. They weren’t allowed to go outside.

  “What did they do there?” Barbara asked. “What was the job?”

  “He’s coming to it,” Roberto said patiently.

  They made little boxes first, out of cardboard with print on it. And bigger boxes to hold the little boxes. They wore rubber gloves, doctors’ gloves, and put medicine in little containers. They put cotton in the containers first, then medicine, more cotton, and they packaged them. That’s all.

  Frank got up and left, to return with a pad of graph paper. “How big were the boxes?” he asked Roberto.

  Miguel held his fingers apart; five or six inches. Frank started to draw a box and Miguel said, “Senor, por favor. I show.” He took the pad and sketched rapidly, a box about six and a half inches long and two inches wide. “Up,” he said, and held up his fingers, then drew a line from the box upward about an inch and a half. He then drew a small cylindrical container, a pill bottle, one and a quarter inches high, and three-quarters of an inch wide. He looked at his work with a frown, then shrugged and handed the pad back to Frank.

  “A little pill bottle,” Frank said. “A real little pill bottle.”

  Miguel nodded and spoke rapidly to Roberto. Twelve little bottles went in the box, he said, and twelve boxes in the big box. He shook his head and spoke rapidly again. First a paper was rolled up and fitted into the bottle. Rules? Miguel shook his head at the word and said something else. Instructions or something, Roberto said, printed paper, very small print, it went in first, then the cotton, the medicine, more cotton, and then the top was put on and sealed with a machine that melted plastic into a band.

  “Good Lord,” Barbara breathed. “Tamper-proof medicine bottles.” Miguel nodded. “How many pills in each one?”

  “Dos,” he said promptly.

  “Two pills? Only two?”

  He nodded emphatically and then spoke for several seconds to Roberto.

  “He says the pills were very dangerous; that’s why they had to wear the gloves. They couldn’t let them touch their skin, their fingers, anything. They were all very frightened by them and they were very careful.”

  “Could they have been radioactive?” Barbara asked, thinking out loud.

  Roberto translated and Miguel shook his head and replied with another burst of rapid Spanish. No, the gringo wore the same kind of gloves when he handled them, but if they had been radioactive, he would have protected himself more than that.

  “Can you read English?”

  “Little,” he admitted, and continued in Spanish for Roberto to translate. The instructions were not in English. He didn’t know the language.

  They kept at it for another hour. Barbara produced a bottle of aspirin and he nodd
ed: Like that, one of the medicines, but smaller. Then he hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. In each little bottle they put one tablet like that, he said, and one different, a capsule, pink and soft. He sketched a slender capsule about an inch long. Pink, he said again. The medicines were kept in plastic jars, separated.

  At twelve-thirty Frank said, “These fellows need some sleep, and so do I. Let’s wrap it up for now.”

  Roberto suggested that Miguel go home with him. He could tell him about his school, and Miguel would like his mother’s cooking. Miguel nodded. They all stood up. Miguel hefted his duffel bag, and Barbara said, “Just one more question, serior. Since you arrived in the dark and left again in the dark, how did you know that place was here, in Oregon, on that particular road?”

  He flashed his big grin and explained to Roberto. They had heard shooting and had been frightened, but the gringo said not to worry and not to ask questions. But he began to think it was like practice, not like the army or bandits. The morning they left, he caught a glimpse of Gallead’s sign, the long rifle silhouetted against the sky, and lie put that together with practice, and suspected a rifle range. And on the last day, when the gringo’s servant brought them some beer and chips, the cash register receipt stuck to the bag. He had been able to make out the words Eugene, Oregon, he finished, and spread his hands.

  After they were gone, Frank prowled about the house checking door locks and windows, and then stopped at the kitchen table, where Barbara was working with a calculator.

  “Bet he came back up with the idea of shaking down Gallead and his guardian angel said that was not a very good idea.”

  “I’ve been doing the numbers,” Barbara said, frowning at her answers. “Each case holds one hundred forty-four individual bottles, and he said there were thirty or forty cases. That’s between four and six thousand. Bailey said the truck makes a run about every six or eight weeks.” She bit the end of the pencil. “That’s not enough for street drugs.”