Failure to appear jpb-11

by J. A. Jance

  So much for yet another romantic night in Ashland, Oregon, I told myself grouchily around 4:00 A.M. Next time, we could just as well bring Hector along. That cat is trouble, but at least he's trouble of a predictable nature. When everything else seems strange and out of control, it's nice to have something you can count on, something whose behavior you can predict with reasonable accuracy.

  In a universe awash in uncertainty, there's reassurance in knowing that some things in life are unchanging, that they respond in an entirely preordained fashion, even if it's only to bite a chunk out of your naked toes.

  The one good thing about lying awake most of the night was that it gave me lots of uninterrupted thinking time. Since Tanya Dunseth was already in jail, it would seem I should have focused on her, but for some reason my thoughts turned again and again to Guy Lewis. Why had he suddenly checked out of the Mark Anthony? Was it before or after Daphne Lewis died in the basement at Live Oak Farm?

  Between five and seven, I finally slept. At seven, Amber landed squarely on my chest and giggled uncontrollably at my startled "Oomph!" Alex and I were both still groggy, but Amber was wide awake and ready to play. She missed her mother, but she was willing to accept these two slow-moving folks as tolerable substitutes.

  The child struck me as a happy-go-lucky, well-adjusted little kid who had no fear of strangers. What that said to me was that Tanya-despite her straitened circumstances and her own ill-used childhood-had somehow provided her child with a world peopled by a collection of trustworthy adult care-givers. Alexis Downey and me included.

  It was a considerable challenge corralling Amber and bathing her before we were all due to go downstairs for breakfast. When Alex, kneeling wet-handed beside the bathtub, passed me an armload of squirming, towel-wrapped toddler, I forgot how short the bathroom ceiling was and rapped the top of my head a good one in the process of taking her. I whacked myself hard enough that I saw stars, but I didn't drop the baby.

  Minutes later I carried a fully dressed child downstairs while Alex grabbed a quick bath for herself. In order to avoid complicating breakfast preparations, I took Amber out on the porch to play. We were there when Live Oak Farm's decrepit Econoline van turned into the yard and stopped. Jeremy Cartwright climbed out.

  After returning Amber's gleeful greeting, he went around to the back of the van and emerged carrying a high chair, which he set on the porch beside me.

  "It's Amber's," he said. "It'll make mealtimes easier."

  Bless Jeremy's thoughtfulness and consistent good sense. For someone who wore Birkenstocks, he wasn't bad.

  "Thanks," I said. He turned down an invitation to breakfast, saying that Kelly was awake and he was headed to the hospital to see her.

  "You actually talked to her? How'd she sound?"

  "Much better," he said. "But I want to see for myself."

  I was trying to decipher the workings of the unfamiliar high chair when Florence appeared at the front door saying I was wanted on the phone. "Who is it?" I asked. "Kelly?"

  "It's a man," she answered. "I think he said his name is Peters."

  Ron Peters was my partner in Homicide before an on-duty accident robbed him of most of the use of his legs. A less stubborn man might have taken his disability pension and run, but Ron had fought his way back onto the force and into full-time active duty, first with a long, boring stint in the Media-Affairs Division and now, much more happily, as a special assistant to Captain Anthony Freeman, head of I.I.D., Seattle P.D.'s Internal Investigations Division.

  "Hey, Ron," I said. "How's it going?" I had taken the call with Amber balanced gingerly on one hip the way I had seen Tanya hold her. Except my hips aren't shaped quite the same way. As soon as I tried to talk, Amber slid down my leg.

  "Why don't you tell me what's going on?" Peters demanded.

  Where to start? I wondered. With Kelly and Jeremy and their almost-but-not-quite wedding? With the brand-new granddaughter I had barely seen? With Tanya Dunseth and a double homicide? With Kelly's serious fall that had landed her in a hospital?

  "Not too much," I said. "Just enjoying a little R and R."

  "That's not what I heard," Peters replied pointedly.

  Right about then Florence's Natasha made an appearance. Amber greeted the animal with a delighted squeal. "Dog! Dog! Dog!"

  The ungodly racket in my ear meant she was also screeching directly into the telephone's mouthpiece. "What's that?" Ron demanded. "Where are you-a day-care center? Sounds like you're locked in a room with a whole tribe of ankle-biters."

  "There's only one child here at the moment," I answered, hoisting Amber again. "Hang on." Alex appeared just then and took charge of the wiggling Amber, carting her off to breakfast.

  "That's better," I said with a relieved sigh. "Now that I can actually hear you, what were you saying?"

  "I said it sounds as though you've been busy."

  "Not really. How are things up there?"

  "Interesting," Peters replied. "Captain Freeman dropped a bomb on my desk a little while ago. He suggested I handle it first thing."

  A tiny stab of anxiety flickered through my mind. Peters didn't sound quite his usual self. "Maybe you'd better call in the bomb squad," I quipped uneasily.

  It was a joke, but Peters didn't laugh. "It's not that kind of bomb," he said. "What I have in my hand is an official interdepartmental complaint, actually two-in-one. It's from both the Jackson County Sheriff's Department and from the Department of Public Safety in the city of Ashland, Oregon."

  "An official complaint? You're kidding! What does it say?"

  "According to one Detective Gordon Fraymore, you are hereby requested to cease and desist from interfering with him and his counterpart at the Sheriff's Department in their common pursuit of their official duties in the investigation of a recent double homicide, blah, blah, blah. How does that grab you?"

  "Why that ungrateful…"

  "He goes on to say that you have been obstructing justice in that you have failed to promptly report meaningful information to him in connection with those same two above-named cases. Is that true?"

  "Well…" I hedged.

  "Tony says cut it out. He says you're on vacation, so act like it. All right?"

  "All right," I returned, taken aback and properly chastened.

  "Good," Peters said, sounding more himself. "Now, with that out of the way, why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

  I told him more or less the whole story while Oak Hill's breakfast went forward without me. It's fair to say Ron was astounded when he learned that the chief suspect's daughter was the "ankle-biter" who had screamed in his ear at the beginning of our conversation.

  "No wonder Detective Fraymore thinks you're interfering. I can see where he might pick up such a crazy, unreasonable idea." Actually, so could I.

  "Well," Peters said finally, "are you going to follow orders and stay out of it or not?"

  "Most likely not," I answered. Since I was talking to Ron Peters, I could just as well be honest. "And neither will Ralph Ames," I added. "He's volunteered to be her defense attorney."

  "Great," Peters said. "The brass is going to love that."

  "I don't see what any of this has to do with them. After all, I am on vacation. Not only that, Ashland is a good eight hours away from the Public Safety Building."

  "You're forgetting the power of the press," Ron said. "The papers are full of it. ‘Prominent Seattlelite Murdered in Ashland.' Guy and Daphne Lewis are big news here in Seattle. The murder made the front page of this morning's Northwest section. Tony is serious when he says you're to butt out."

  I didn't like Tony Freeman or anyone else issuing orders to me while I was on vacation. My hackles stood on end. "Freeman's got a hell of a lot of nerve," I said, sounding surly even to me.

  "He's going by what Gordon Fraymore said," Peters reasoned.

  "Oh, him. Fraymore's had it in for me from the moment I set foot in this town. I haven't done anything wrong, so far. For that matter, I'm
beginning to wonder if Tanya Dunseth has, either. Gordon Fraymore thinks he's built himself an airtight case, and I think Fraymore's a jackass."

  "You always did keep your opinions to yourself," Ron observed.

  He may have been making fun of me, but I was thinking on my feet. Fraymore's letter, one way or another, had brought the situation in Ashland to the attention of Seattle P.D. Now, with Ron on the phone, I had a chance at some semi-official lines of inquiry-if I could manage to reel him in.

  "I wonder…" I said tentatively.

  "Wonder what?" Peters asked, going for the proffered bait like a half-starved fish, exactly as I knew he would.

  "If someone else is using Tanya Dunseth as a fall guy."

  "Fall guy or fall woman?" Peters returned. He spent so long in Media Relations that politically correct language has become second nature.

  "Are you saying she's being framed?"

  "Possibly."

  "By Detective Fraymore?"

  "Not deliberately. He's a jerk, but he's only doing his job. He wants to clear the case as soon as possible, and he has what seems on the face of it to be pretty conclusive evidence. But what if someone else is handing him that evidence, someone we don't know about?"

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line as Peters considered. I knew it was only a matter of time.

  "Who?" he asked.

  "Guy Lewis maybe?"

  Ron whistled. "Are you serious? As in king of the chemical toilets? You think he's the one pulling the strings?"

  "I take it you already know him?"

  "Only what it said in the paper up here this morning. Chemical toilets may not be all that glamorous a racket, but there must be good money in it. According to the article, he and his late wife were big benefactors on the local arts scene. You want me to see what I can dig up on him?"

  I knew I had Ron Peters then. I had sucked him in the same way Alex and Ralph had cornered me. Other than Ron's impossible affinity for natural foods, he's a pretty squared-away guy. When we worked together, we got along well because we were a matched pair of unconventional mavericks-typical homicide dicks.

  "What do you want to know?" Ron asked.

  "Everything."

  "Make it easy. How about some hints?"

  "Look into Guy Lewis and his wife. Both wives, actually. And you might see if you can turn up any current connections between Daphne Lewis and Martin Shore."

  "The way you say that, it sounds as though there were some connections in the past," Peters said.

  "You got it. Shore and Daphne were equal partners in a porno ring over in Yakima."

  "No joke! Guy Lewis, too?"

  "No. I'm thinking Guy found out about it only recently."

  "And it disturbed him enough to want to get rid of them?"

  "Seems plausible."

  Over the phone, I heard the scribble of pencil and paper as Ron made notes. "Anything else?" he asked.

  "Actually, there is. Check out a prison guard over in Walla Walla-a guy by the name of Roger Tompkins. I'd like to know what he's up to."

  "You've got it," Peters said cheerily. "That's all?"

  "One more thing. You take Consumer Reports, don't you?"

  "Every month."

  "Would you see which companies manufacture the best high chairs and car seats? We're talking top-of-the-line here. I want names and model numbers both."

  "Car seats. You mean for little kids?"

  "Yes."

  "I presume these are for Amber, the one who was yelling her head off a few minutes ago," Peters said. "Interfering is one thing. Aren't you going off the deep end?"

  "They're not for Amber," I replied. "They're for Karen."

  "Karen? Your ex-wife? She's not having a baby, is she?"

  "Not my ex-wife. My granddaughter. Kelly's baby."

  "Granddaughter!" Peters echoed. "Wait a minute. How the hell did you end up with a granddaughter? You never told me Kelly was married."

  "She isn't," I answered.

  There was a long pause while Peters assimilated that information. "Oh," he said at last. "Well, how about telling me what else is going on?"

  Just then the call-waiting signal buzzed on Florence's line. "Nothing much. I'll explain it all later. I've got to go now. This is a business line. I can't keep it tied up any longer."

  "Wait a sec here," Peters bristled. "I've got one more thing to say to you." He sounded as if he meant it-call-waiting be damned!

  "What's that?" I asked innocently.

  "Did anyone ever tell you you're one close-mouthed son of a bitch?"

  "No," I told him. "I don't believe anyone's ever mentioned it before. You're the very first one."

  "The hell I am!" he growled, and slammed down the phone.

  I tried clicking the switch hook, but the caller had already given up. Feeling guilty, I headed into the dining room in search of breakfast left-overs.

  I still don't understand why Ron Peters was so offended. If I had tried to tell him the whole story of my romantic interlude in Ashland, Oregon, we would have been on the phone for days.

  CHAPTER 13

  Around ten, two young women from the Festival appeared. One came to take care of Amber. The other was a temporary fill-in as Oak Hill's upstairs maid. Although I'm sure they were both just scraping by financially, neither would accept any payment. The substitute maid told Florence that she should fill out the time card as though Kelly had come to work herself. Nice people.

  Cut free from our self-inflicted baby-sitting chores, Alex and I stopped by the hospital to see Kelly. The room had been fairly dark the night before. This morning the curtains were open, and the entire place was alive with flowers.

  Some of the arrangements were obvious refugees from the canceled wedding. A few were commercial-type baskets, including a huge one from the board of directors of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. But the ones that got to me most-the ones that put a lump in my throat-were the numerous amateurish but thoughtfully put together, homegrown variety in simple cut-glass vases. This astonishing array covered every available horizontal surface. It was as though all the gardeners of Ashland had collectively taken their green thumbs outdoors early that morning and plucked their flower beds clean of every colorful bloom.

  When it comes to flowers, I don't know much beyond the basics, which is to say roses. And some of the bouquets actually contained roses, but most of the flowers in that vivid assortment I couldn't have named on a bet.

  Looking at them ranged everywhere and spilling out into the hall, I didn't think it possible that the people of Ashland would shower someone as new to town as Kelly with that kind of abundant affection. What I kept forgetting, though, is that Ashland is small-town America. In a place like that, people don't have to know someone personally in order to give a damn.

  Don't get me wrong. I like Seattle, but Ashland was showing me that my home turf isn't necessarily the only place to live.

  Kelly was asleep when we first arrived. Alex waited around a while, then Dinky came to pick her up, and the two of them set out for Medford to do some shopping. I sat beside Kelly's bed watching and thinking.

  I knew that beneath the swathe of bandages the doctors and nurses had shaved off a huge patch of her long blond hair. If anything, the bruises on her face had grown darker overnight. But hair grows back. Bruises heal. The important thing was that she was still alive and most likely would recover.

  A few minutes later, Kelly's eyes blinked open. At first she looked around with the dazed, puzzled expression of someone who can't remember quite who or where she is. Then her gaze settled on my face, and she smiled. Her hand sought mine, held it, and squeezed. No paralysis, at least not in her arms. I breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving.

  "Hi, Daddy," she whispered. "How long have you been here?"

  "Just a couple of minutes."

  "Why didn't you wake me? Have you seen the baby?"

  I nodded. "She's perfect. She looks just like you did when you were born."
r />   Kelly's lips were dry and cracked. Positioning the straw, I helped her take a sip of ice water from a glass beside the bed. "Jeremy told me what you're doing for Tanya," she said. "That you're helping her and taking care of Amber. Thank you."

  I didn't want to take credit where it wasn't due. I certainly didn't merit thanks. "It's all Alex's doing," I said.

  Kelly closed her eyes. I thought she was sleeping again, but a moment later her blue eyes flutered back open. "Jeremy told me there was someone dead in the basement, some woman. I couldn't understand it. Who was she? Why was she there?"

  "Her name is Daphne Lewis. She was from Seattle."

  "If she was there and I saw her, why don't I remember? Why is it all blank? I remember eating lunch, and the next thing is waking up here in the hospital."

  My own nightmarish remembrance of Daphne Lewis dangling on the end of the rope was still far too fresh. "It's a blessing you can't remember, Kelly, something to be grateful for."

  "But it seems weird to have that part of my life gone just like that. Erased. I keep thinking if I just concentrate…"

  "Let it go, Kelly," I advised. "Forget it. If you're going to concentrate on something, focus on getting well so you can get out of here, go home, and take care of Karen."

  Kelly went right on as though I hadn't said a word. "Daphne Lewis?" She frowned. "Who is she, and why do the police think Tanya killed her? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

  I gave up avoiding the issue and tried answering questions. "Tanya knew Daphne Lewis years ago. There's enough evidence connecting them to arouse Detective Fraymore's suspicions."

  "But Tanya's so nice," Kelly argued. "You don't know her the way I do. She's not violent. She would never kill anyone, no matter what."

  It was more or less the same thing Jeremy had said. Clearly, there was much about Tanya that neither Kelly nor Jeremy suspected, and it wasn't my place to tell them otherwise.