by J. A. Jance
The old man looked at me helplessly. "We'd best step outside," he said.
I was already apologizing before we ever reached the front porch. "Obviously, there's been a terrible mistake. You're Roger Tompkins?"
He nodded. "As far as I know. Have been for going on seventy years now."
"That means the person who claimed to be your daughter was lying."
"You've met someone who says that?" He sounded shocked.
"Yes, a young woman down in Ashland, Oregon. She told us that she was Roseann Charlene Tompkins from Walla Walla, Washington. She said you were a guard in the prison."
"I was, until I retired a few years back."
"She said your wife was a cook at the school."
"That's also correct. Willy retired from there just this past month."
"I'm so sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Tompkins, and to have upset your wife. Obviously, this young woman can't possibly be your daughter. She's a red-haired Caucasian."
"There's a better reason than that," Roger Tompkins returned with restrained dignity. "Our daughter is dead."
"Dead?" I repeated, sounding like an insubstantial echo.
Tompkins nodded. "Roseann died back in 1968. She was a change-of-life baby-our last one. She was only four months old when she died. That's why Willy's so upset. I'm sure she thought it was someone playing another one of those ugly pranks. We had phone calls about it at the time-some of 'em pretty bad-people saying we must have killed her, that kind of thing. Back then nobody talked about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. People know more about it these days. It's been a long time, but I don't think Willy ever got over it, not altogether."
In all my life, I don't remember ever feeling more the heel. And stupid besides. Tanya Dunseth had seen Ralph and me coming a mile away. Her heartrending tale of monstrous abuse had left us putty in her hands. Even I-a prizewinning chump if ever there was one-could see that Roger Tompkins was no monster.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Tompkins, and to have brought your painful ordeal back to the surface. I had no idea."
"No," Roger Tompkins said kindly. "I'm sure you didn't. Who is this troubled young woman, anyway? Why would she do such a thing?"
"That," I declared hotly, "is something I intend to find out. She's obviously gone to the extent of learning as much about you as possible. For instance, she knew your address and where both you and your wife worked. It's an old stunt people pull when they have something to hide. They go back through old newspaper files and assume the identity of a child who died at an early age but at approximately the same time."
"In order to get a Social Security number, wouldn't she need a birth certificate? You said this girl is white. As you can see, Willy and I most certainly are not."
"Actually, Mr. Tompkins, it's even more complicated than that. She was using an entirely different identity for official purposes, and it turns out that one's fake, too."
We had walked out to the street and were standing beside my rental car. Roger Tompkins clicked his tongue. "How truly unfortunate," he said thoughtfully. "Circles within circles, wheels within wheels. To spin a trail of lies like that, she must be very disturbed."
"You could say that again," I said. "You certainly could. Please express my sincere apologies to your wife. I hope her ankle isn't hurt too badly. I'd be happy to help take her to an emergency room if you wanted."
"Oh," Roger Tompkins answered with an easy smile, "that won't be necessary. She'll be fine. We'll go to the doctor tomorrow morning if need be. Willy's a pretty tough old bird. We both are. We've had to be."
I hadn't a doubt in the world that was true.
Beside myself, I headed back to the TraveLodge. Wheels within wheels all right! There was no way to make sense of the tangle of lies Ralph and I had been fed, but one thing was certain. Tanya Dunseth was not to be trusted.
Was she the murdered? Maybe. Most likely, in fact, especially the more I thought about it. Why else would she have spun this web of fabrication? Only people with something awful to hide build those kinds of complicated but phony constructs around them.
Ralph Ames had told me that even if Tanya Dunseth was guilty, he was prepared to defend her to the best of his personal and professional capability. You'd better gear up, my friend, I thought. You've got your work cut out for you.
I made it back to my room in what was probably record time for Walla Walla. My rented Tempo didn't come with a cellular phone, so I waited until then before I tried calling Ralph. He wasn't in. I tried again half an hour later and every thirty minutes thereafter, from 9:00 P.M. until midnight. He finally answered the phone at 12:25.
"Where've you been?" I demanded peevishly. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."
"I just came back from the Bowmer," he said. "Alex and I went to see Romeo and Juliet. It is wonderful and Alex didn't mind seeing it again. For such a young woman, Tanya really is an exceptional actress."
"Tanya!" I exploded. "Tanya Dunseth was in tonight's production?"
"What other Tanya would I be talking about?"
"She's out of jail and back playing Juliet?"
"That's right. Her landlady and I posted bail for her around four-thirty this afternoon, just in time for her to make the eight-thirty curtain."
"Jesus Christ! You've got to be kidding."
"Beau," Ralph said calmly. "Of course I'm not kidding. What's gotten into you? Are you upset about something? Is something wrong?"
"You could say something's wrong," I returned morosely. "Just wait until I tell you."
And I did.
CHAPTER 16
Once he heard what I had to say, Ralph was as thunderstruck as I had been. "We've been nailed but good, haven't we?" he said. "No doubt about it. What do we do now?"
That was a switch-a real first-Ralph Ames asking me for advice. "Don't do anything until I get back, except try to keep her from skipping town. By the way, where is she now?" I asked.
"Back at Live Oak Farm, as far as I know, although I'm not sure we can count on her staying put for long. If she takes off, all those people out there will be on the street."
"How come?"
"Because Marjorie Connors signed over the deed to Live Oak Farm to bail Tanya out of the slammer."
"Why'd she do a thing like that?"
"Why else?" Ralph returned. "Misplaced loyalty, most likely. Marjorie Connors volunteered, just like all the rest of us. There's a lot of that going around these days."
"I don't understand how come they let her out in the first place. If Fraymore's evidence is that good…"
"My guess is the Festival probably pulled in a marker or two. If there's any political pull in this county, they own it. Remember, it's the height of the season. They wanted Juliet back if only temporarily. Fraymore gave me some advance notice. He told me prior to the hearing that they might allow bail, but I didn't think it would happen, purely as a matter of economics. Then, out of the blue, Marjorie turned up with a guarantee for the whole amount, and that was that. It was damned nice of her."
"Stupid, you mean."
"Well, yes. That, too. I can't help but feel sorry for Mrs. Connors. She's been hoodwinked even worse than the rest of us."
"Don't worry about Marjorie Connors," I told him. "She is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. The woman's gone out of her way to amass a collection of somewhat troubled kids, Kelly Beaumont included. People who make a hobby out of rescuing orphaned wildlife or patching up injured birds are bound to get bitten or pecked on occasion."
I doubt Ames was listening to me. "Now that you mention it, is it possible Mrs. Connors knows the truth about Tanya?" he asked.
"Why would she?"
"Try this. If Tanya were to confide in anyone, wouldn't Marjorie Connors-the woman who kept her from being thrown into the streets-be the logical choice?"
"Hold on, Ralph. Tanya Dunseth doesn't do truth or logic either, for that matter. If she told Marjorie anything at all, you can bet it will be some far-fetched sob
story designed to elicit the greatest amount of sympathy. You can ask, but I'll bet money what Marjorie knows has very little bearing on the truth-whatever that might be."
"You mean every story is a variation on the same theme, so she can suck other people in as well."
"You've got it. I personally don't give a damn how many people she cons, and I don't care how many lies she tells. My main concern isn't whether or not she's a liar, but whether or not she's a killer. If she is, my worry is that you and I may be helping put her back out on the streets so she can do it again."
There was a pause. "In other words," Ralph Ames said, "once a homicide cop, always a homicide cop. You don't like walking on the other side of the street, do you?"
"Don't joke around, Ralph. I've spent a lifetime putting killers away. It galls me to think I've been busting my tail to turn one loose."
"Maybe she really is crazy," he suggested thoughtfully. "I believe you said Mr. Tompkins called her ‘disturbed.' We talked about it before. That's why they allow insanity pleas."
"An insanity plea may work like a charm," I told him, "but I don't want anything to do with it. There's too much risk."
"I can see you're going to have to give it some thought, Beau. As for me, I said I'm going to try to help her, and I will."
Shortly after that, I rang off and tried to go to sleep. Even though I had barely slept for days, it still didn't work. I tossed and turned for hours. Periodically, I'd sit up and look at the clock, thinking it must be almost morning, but only fifteen or twenty minutes would have passed since I last checked. Sometime during the night, I reached a decision.
It wasn't necessarily a logical decision. I didn't have to worry about proving anything beyond a reasonable doubt, because it was strictly personal-an internal verdict, not something happening in a court of law. In those painful midnight proceedings, J.P. Beaumont weighed both guilt and innocence, analyzing Tanya Dunseth's complicated fabric of lies. I thought about questions of opportunity and motivation. I pondered the connections between her and the two victims and weighed Tanya's access to the murder weapons.
When my middle-of-the-night hearing ended, somewhere close to three in the morning, I decided that Tanya Dunseth was too damn hot for me to handle. If Ralph Ames wanted to defend her or help her cop a plea, that was strictly up to him-but I wouldn't be involved. I wanted out. And once I finally reached that conclusion, I was able to sleep.
The next day I was up and out so early that I arrived at the airport a full two hours before my scheduled departure. I figured once I reached Ashland would be time enough to tell Ralph that I was bailing out on him. I didn't figure he would give me that much grief over it, but I worried about potential repercussions from the Tanya Dunseth cheering section, both Alex and Kelly.
I worried, too, about whether or not Gordon Fraymore had learned I was AWOL from Ashland. What was it he had said? — If I were you, I wouldn't leave town. Fair enough. Detective Gordon Fraymore was definitely not J.P. Beaumont.
I flew into Medford from Portland aboard a Dash 8 called, appropriately enough, The Great City of Medford. Once back in my 928 with my cellular phone handy, I figured I had returned to civilization. I picked up the phone and dialed Ron Peters. He answered after only one ring.
"It's about time I heard from one or the other of you," he complained. "I've been calling all over and haven't been able to raise either Ralph or you. I even talked to Alex. She said she didn't know where you were and didn't particularly care. What happened? Did you two have a fight?"
"We didn't have a fight," I said. "I got called out of town. What's happening?"
"I've managed to pick up some information for you," Ron said. "Is now a good time?"
"It's fine. Shoot."
"For one thing, I tracked down that prison guard in Walla Walla. Everything official says he's a real straight shooter. He's retired now. So's his wife. For many years, she's been a cook in the high school cafeteria over there."
Ron Peters was up in Seattle doing what he could to help. I didn't have the heart to tell him that his information was yesterday's news.
"What else?" I asked.
"Martin Shore was a sleaze, but you already knew that. Here's the surprise. Years ago, Shore was married to Daphne Lewis, and the two of them ran a lucrative kiddie-porno ring out of Yakima. It got busted up about the time Shore was kicked off the force over there. They had split up shortly before all hell broke loose. After they split, Daphne somehow managed to go straight. Later she hooked up with Guy Lewis, while Shore started working in Seattle as a private eye."
"Any current connection between them?"
"Between Daphne and Shore? Could be, but I haven't found one yet."
Networking has always been Ron Peters' strong suit. Nonetheless, it was amazing that, sitting stuck in a desk-bound wheelchair in Seattle's Public Safety Building, he had learned almost as much as I had, with considerably less trouble and at far less expense. Knowing that made me humble.
"You've been working overtime," I said.
He laughed. "You know me. I'm a big one for using inside sources. That Ashland cop, Fraymore, has asked Seattle P.D. to cooperate with his investigation. Right now, they're looking into a possible blackmail angle. All I've had to do is ask a few discreet questions."
"And know who to ask," I added. "Anything else?"
"That's about it, except for some clippings I've come up with on Guy Lewis. The guy's a real publicity hound. He ends up with his picture in the paper almost as often as the mayor, along with whichever wife is currently in vogue. Does he have a complex or what?"
"If you'd made your family fortune with chemical toilets, maybe you'd be defensive, too."
"Maybe. Anyway, I have a whole fistful of society-page-type clippings and several photos of him and his two wives. Separately, of course. Naturally, Daphne Lewis and Maggie Lewis don't appear in any pictures together. If you'd like my unsolicited opinion, and judging by the photos alone, Guy did lots better in the looks department the second time around."
"I suspected as much."
Ron Peters laughed. "I've got a picture of Maggie Lewis and a puppy she picked up at a Humane Society benefit. The dog's better-looking than she is. Want me to send you this stuff?"
"How much is there?"
"Ten, twelve pages."
Even though I personally was out of it, and even though I didn't see that it would do much good, I didn't want to sound ungrateful. "Please. Fax it on down to Ralph so we can take a look at it."
"What about the information from Consumer Reports on the car seat and high chair?"
"Fax that, too," I told him. "And thanks."
"No problem," he said. "Glad to do it."
Once I reached Ashland, I drove straight to the Ashland Hills. All I wanted to do was tell Ralph I was out of it, that he was on his own, but Ralph's rented Lincoln wasn't in the parking lot, and no one answered the door when I knocked. I took a turn around the coffee shop in case he was there having breakfast, but when I couldn't find him, I headed back to the Oak Hill B amp; B. Maybe he was joining Alex for breakfast.
It turned out Ralph wasn't there, either. Alexis Downey was. So was Amber Dunseth. I found Alex sitting in the sun on the back deck watching Amber play with some stuffed animals. Alex didn't seem exactly overjoyed to see me.
"It wasn't nice to take off like that without letting me know," she said. "Given the chance, I would have gone along."
I was struck by her obvious irritation. The day before I had left Ashland in my single-minded work mode, intent only on the jobs at hand-of seeing Guy Lewis and hurrying on to Walla Walla to do what was needed there. Like detectives everywhere, once I'm immersed in a case, there isn't much room left for personal considerations. It's part of my nature and one of the things that makes me good at what I do. It's also something that drives people around me crazy. It's a leading factor in statistical studies of police-officer divorces-mine included.
Dummy that I am, it hadn't occurred to me to inv
ite Alex along on the trip to Walla Walla, much less that she might have wanted to go.
"Walla Walla's not all that much fun," I said, in hopes of worming my way out of the doghouse. "Besides, you enjoyed going to the play with Ralph, didn't you?"
"That's not the point," she observed coolly. "You forget, I see plays all the time. I thought we came here to spend time together."
Touche. I tried changing the subject. "Have you heard from Ralph this morning? I stopped on my way here, but he wasn't in."
"Naturally, you went to see Ralph first," Alex returned. "Here." She picked up Amber and angrily thrust the child in my direction. "You take care of Amber for a few minutes while I take a bath and cool off. All the actors and technical people have a required meeting at the Elizabethan this morning. There wasn't anybody else to take care of Amber. Jeremy dropped her off again a little while ago."
Carrying both the child and a collection of toys, I trailed Alex into the house, through the dining and living rooms, and up the stairs. Amber had spent the night with her mother, and I was in more trouble than I thought.
"Alex, what's going on?"
"Going on?" She paused in the doorway and spun around. I fully expected the door to slam shut in my face.
"I'll tell you what's going on, Mr. Beaumont. This may come as a surprise to you. It certainly does to me. I think I'm jealous, dammit, and I don't know what to do about it."
I was standing there in the hallway, holding Amber with one arm while stuffed toys leaked out of my other arm and spilled down my leg. How could anyone be jealous of someone like that?
"Who are you jealous of?" I asked in genuine dismay.
She shrugged. "I don't know. With Kelly and Jeremy and your whole family here-and now with all this business about Tanya-I feel like I'm on the outside of your life looking in. It's not very pleasant. I don't like it."
"But, Alex, you asked me to help Tanya, remember?"
"I know, that isn't fair, is it?" she agreed, her voice near tears. "If you're doing what I wanted, it's not right for me to feel lost and abandoned. I hate being unreasonable!"