Kathryn kept talking with scarcely a hitch, although her attention had been snagged by the opening of the door at the back of the large room and the totally unprecedented appearance there of Mrs. Warburton. Warby made no attempt to find a seat, but merely stood patiently against the back wall.
“—which means that if you go over to the university chapel,” Kathryn was saying, “you will find St. Augustine pictured in the stained glass window dedicated to Truth rather than the one dedicated to Theology—a nice distinction if there ever was one, I’d love to talk to the guy who designed the windows, I suspect he was a Congregationalist—” There could be only one reason why Warby was seeking her out on the seminary campus in the middle of the day; there must have been a call from California. Frabjous day!
“—and if you can come up with a better system for classifying every conceivable manner of wrongdoing, I will personally buy you a fifth of scotch. Of course, if you don’t drink scotch”—Kathryn paused, eyeing the large clock on the back wall; five seconds to go—“I want nothing to do with you.” The bell rang before the laughter died away.
Plowing through the departing clamor of students, she made her way down the aisle to the back of the room.
“They’ve found her,” said Mrs. Warburton.
Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat. “Bradford called?”
Mrs. Warburton was hiding a smile. “Not Mr. Bradford. One of his detectives.”
“What did he say?”
Mrs. Warburton’s smile came out of hiding. “It’s a she.” Kathryn grimaced. She was not often caught in accidental sexism, and although she knew that Mrs. Warburton had deliberately laid the trap, she blamed only herself for walking straight into it. “Don’t smirk, Warby, it’s unbecoming.”
Mrs. Warburton chuckled. “She called from Hoskin, which is a little town about a hundred and twenty miles north of San Francisco.”
“And that’s where our missing lady is?”
“Yes, at a motel, I’ve got the address. The detective—Miss Withers—says she shows no signs of leaving, but just in case, you should check with Mr. Bradford for a message when you get to San Francisco. I’ve got his home number.”
Kathryn looked suspicious. “I didn’t tell you I was going to San Francisco.”
“Well, you didn’t know you could, did you? What luck that the news came just when you have the whole weekend. I got you a seat on the three o’clock plane, but I thought I should come and tell you right away in case you weren’t coming home to lunch.”
“Warby.”
“Oh, come now, Kate. You can’t pretend you were going to turn her over to the police.”
“That’s the obvious thing to do,” Kathryn countered unconvincingly.
“Nonsense. You’re going to go out there and fetch her and bring her back to your policeman friend tied up in a bow.”
“Oh.”
“Well, that’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”
Kathryn sighed. “I have a lunch date I can’t possibly break and I’d have to leave the house by one.”
“I’ll pack for you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Kathryn opened her mouth and closed it again.
Mrs. Warburton rolled on. “You’ll only be gone overnight, after all. You won’t have time to change before you leave, but I’ll put in something comfortable for tomorrow. And all your night things, of course.”
“I have papers to grade,” said Kathryn stubbornly.
“Oh, you can do that on the plane,” said Mrs. Warburton, maddeningly complacent. “You’ll have lots of time.” She nodded at Kathryn, and sailed away, down the now-empty hallway, on a wave of efficiency.
“Warby!” Kathryn called after her.
“Yes, dear?”
“Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to pat me on the head and remind me to wear my mittens?”
Mrs. Warburton laughed.
CHAPTER 24
When she got off the plane in San Francisco, Kathryn was met by the pilot who was to fly her to Ukiah Municipal Airport, which was as close as airplanes got to where she was going. The man introduced himself as Fred, and stood looking bored while she phoned Charles Bradford to confirm that the quarry was still in Hoskin.
Fred then led Kathryn mutely through the scurrying crowds down the concourse, through the main body of the terminal building, and out another concourse, down an unmarked flight of stairs, out a door, and into a mild, clear night that was a blissful change from New Jersey. The pilot headed for a single-engine plane with a V-shaped tail, and Kathryn cried with real pleasure, “Oh, it’s a Bonanza!”
This prompted Fred to regard her with more approval than he had previously accorded her, him not being—as he had told his boss—much for lady ministers. “You know planes?”
“I know this one. My uncle used to fly one.”
“Pilot?”
“No, he was a rancher. His ranch was a seven-hour drive from nowhere in South Texas, so he used the Bonanza to get into town.”
A couple of minutes’ further conversation on this topic amply demonstrated that Kathryn’s uncle Jesse had taught her everything her childish mind had been able to absorb about flying, and she hadn’t forgotten it. Fred unbent a little. She was even forgiven for admiring the lights of San Francisco, a sight the pilot had seen too often to find inspiring.
The lights below first thinned, then became intermittent. Eventually Fred identified a cluster of them as Ukiah, and once past it they began their descent. They landed and taxied up to a small building. Fred remarked that you couldn’t see much of the place in the dark, but then, he added with the only evidence of humor Kathryn had glimpsed in him, there wasn’t much place to see even in the light.
She paid him with about a third of the cash Mrs. Warburton had withdrawn from the housekeeping account that afternoon, thanked him, and firmly reclaimed her bag and briefcase from his reluctantly cordial grasp. Bypassing the minute terminal building altogether, she walked directly to the taxi she could see waiting. “Are you for me? Koerney?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sunset Motel, in Hoskin?” The driver clearly thought there was some mistake.
“That’s right,” she assured him. She relinquished her gear to the driver and settled into the backseat, wondering if rich people—she still could not think of herself as one—moved through their whole lives with this sort of well-oiled efficiency.
The driver, after a brief attempt to persuade her that she’d like the Holiday Inn better, drove her to the shabby motel on which, Kathryn decided after one look, the sun had set a long time ago.
Faulty neon announced “acancy.” The door to the office was flanked by a Coke machine and a cardboard box inhabited by a gloomy black dog of uncertain parentage. The woman behind the desk, thought Kathryn, will have bleached-blond hair in curlers. And a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
She walked into the office, set down her things on a faded carpet of hideous green, and suppressed a grin. “Hello,” she said to the middle-aged improbable redhead—in curlers—who was lighting a cigarette off the butt of the last one and concentrating heavily on an ancient black-and-white television in the corner of the room. “My name is Koerney. I’m looking for a Ms. Withers.”
Not even the clergy collar earned Kathryn a second glance. “Number seven,” said the redhead out of the corner of her mouth. “But she’s over at the café. ‘Cross the street. You can leave your stuff here if you want.”
Kathryn, surprised by this unexpected graciousness, decided Ms. Withers had greased a palm, and availed herself of the offer. She then crossed the two-lane highway to Bart’s Café, which despite its unpromising name appeared to be several degrees closer to civilization than the Sunset Motel.
She stood in the door, looking around and looking conspicuous. A dumpy, comfortable-looking woman of around forty-five, in a hairdo several decades out of date and a polyester pantsuit, waved to her. Kathryn advanced dubiously. “Ms. With
ers?”
“Sally. Sit down and stop looking surprised.”
Kathryn smiled, and sat. “Sorry. You don’t look like a detective.”
“That’s my fortune, honey. But you should talk.” The detective gestured at Kathryn’s priestly attire.
Kathryn smiled again. “You’ve got a point. But don’t keep me in suspense. You’ve found her?”
“I think so. It wasn’t a cinch without a photo, but the woman in that back corner booth—don’t look, she’ll see you, she’s looking around for the waitress. I’ll tell you when. That woman there, she caught a taxi five blocks from the Mark Hopkins Tuesday morning at five-thirty-five. Taxi took her to the bus station, bus brought her here. It stops just outside this place. She went across the street and got a room at that motel, if you can believe it. Been here ever since. Must be bored out of her mind. I know I am, and I’ve only been here since this morning. Now.” She nodded.
Kathryn turned quickly and looked in the direction indicated. At the booth in the corner, there she sat, elegant and unmistakable, looking, despite the pallor of despair, like a lily in a field of dandelions. Kathryn turned back to Sally Withers. “Brilliant, just brilliant. That’s her all right. I don’t suppose she’s still using the name Stanley, is she?”
“Nope, Ellison. Maiden name, probably.”
“Mmm. O.K., this is where I do my stuff. You know what the situation is. If she tries to get away, stop her.”
“With a flying tackle.”
“If necessary, yes. Here goes.” Kathryn stood, and stumbled a little as she edged out of the booth. She found that she had something like stage fright. She bit her lip, clenched her fists, and said a brief, urgent prayer. Then, schooling her face to calm, she walked down the tile floor to the back corner booth and stood there. The woman looked up inquiringly.
Kathryn drew a careful breath and said in the most non-threatening voice she could muster: “Mrs. Kimbrough? Grace Kimbrough?”
CHAPTER 25
Grace Kimbrough continued to look inquiring for perhaps another second. Then Kathryn could see the realization hit her that she had been addressed by her own name; there was shock in her eyes, and fear.
“I thought perhaps you would like to know,” said Kathryn diffidently, “that the police in New Jersey are looking for you—well, you already know that, of course, but I imagine you don’t know that to find you they’re dragging rivers and looking under bushes. Bill Stanley has been arrested for murdering you.”
Fear gave way to blank astonishment. “Murdering me?”
“Yes, I thought that would surprise you. It was Carolyn he killed, wasn’t it?” Some flicker of hope still remained in Kathryn that there was some other explanation, that Carolyn—Carolyn the capable, the exquisite, the honest—was not dead. But she saw the fear creep back into Grace Kimbrough’s face, and knew that she had been right. Satisfyingly, ego-boostingly, terribly, sadly right. She needed to sit down. Grace still stared at her, wordless. Kathryn slipped into the seat opposite her and stared back, reading Carolyn’s death in the frightened face of her friend. Satisfaction ebbed away, leaving Kathryn feeling suddenly tired and wondering why on earth she had thought she would enjoy this, this playing detective. But she couldn’t quit now. She had work to do.
“Excuse me,” she said gently. “I should perhaps introduce myself. My name is Kathryn Koerney. I’ve just come from Harton. I hired a private detective to find you. The San Francisco police couldn’t find you because they were furnished with a description of Carolyn, and I imagine they’ve been asking around for a diminutive brunette with a well-rounded figure and short, curly hair.” Kathryn’s eye swept over Grace’s smooth shoulder-length hair, and the bone structure that would normally establish her beauty but now only underlined her fatigue. Her height, thanks to the posture that even disaster had not touched, was evident still as she sat. “You drove Carolyn’s car to the airport, didn’t you? And used her ticket?”
Grace, uncomprehending, nodded almost imperceptibly. “But I never meant—why did they—”
“Bill moved Carolyn’s body in the middle of the night—God only knows to where, he’s not saying. He’s not saying anything, in fact, not even to his lawyers. So, consider it: Carolyn is known to be leaving for California. She leaves her office after lunch to go home to get her luggage and go to the airport. That evening, the police are called in, not to look for Mrs. Stanley, who has apparently driven to the airport and caught her flight exactly as arranged, but for Grace Kimbrough, who wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere and has vanished without a trace.”
There was a pause. Grace managed to murmur, “How stupid of me.”
“Not necessarily. You had no reason to assume that Carolyn’s body would disappear. Drink your coffee, it’s getting cold.”
This considerate admonition startled Grace out of her trance. She looked at her cup, then carefully, using both hands, picked it up and drank. She set it back in the saucer as though relieved to have negotiated a difficult maneuver successfully. Her hands stayed on the cup, and she looked at them, not at Kathryn.
As Grace studied her hands, Kathryn became aware for the first time of the noises of the café: the clink of forks on plates, the clatter of dishes, a babble of conversation, the waitress’s shrill, good-humored voice calling out an order for a Bart’s burger and fries. They had been talking with a concentration so absolute that it had blanked out all other sounds and enclosed their booth in a capsule of silence. Suddenly Grace, too, seemed aware of her surroundings. She looked about with a kind of helpless irritation, as though the commonplace activity in the café were an affront to the magnitude of her distress.
Kathryn observed, “It’s not the best place to talk, is it? Let’s go somewhere else.” She scooted out of the booth and held out her hand invitingly, almost as though to assist Grace to rise. Grace moved slowly but with determination. She stood, looked vaguely around her for an instant, then reached back across where she’d been sitting and grasped her handbag. She looked at Kathryn again.
Kathryn picked up the check that Grace had forgotten, glanced at it, calculated the tip, dug in her own handbag, and produced a dollar and some coins. Grace, saying not a word, watched Kathryn as she placed the money next to the plate containing the limp remains of a club sandwich.
Kathryn, who had expected a protest and an apology for absentmindedness, looked at Grace and with some surprise recognized the expression on her face: It was that of a child—not a happy one—who was waiting for the grown-ups to take care of grown-up things. When told to come along, she would come. Grace had abdicated; she had placed herself in Kathryn’s hands. Kathryn had wanted to be in control of the situation, but this much authority frightened her. She summoned a reassuring smile and gestured for Grace to precede her; they walked to the cashier’s stand by the door, Kathryn paid the bill, and they both stepped out into the night.
Across the parking lot to their left was a supermarket whose lights proclaimed that it kept late hours. Kathryn looked at Grace. “What do you drink?” she asked.
Grace lost a few seconds to astonishment, then answered, “Scotch.”
“Good girl,” said Kathryn. “Come on.” They walked over to the store, and as Kathryn held the door open for Grace, a backward glance told her they were being followed by Sally Withers. Kathryn sketched a salute.
She bought Chivas Regal and soda and, because she doubted the amenities of the Sunset Motel, a package of plastic drinking cups and a bag of ice. Back at the motel, Grace asserted herself enough to lead Kathryn to her room. She fumbled with her key and got the door open, and they went in.
Kathryn wrinkled her fastidious nose, but it was no more—or no less—than she had expected. There was a lumpy-looking bed, an armchair upholstered in grim vinyl with two cigarette burns in the right arm, and a small plywood table, painted orange, next to the chair.
Kathryn waved at the chair and Grace sank into it. Kathryn mixed drinks at the table.
She handed Grac
e a scotch and soda that was mostly scotch, and went to put the ice in the bathroom sink. She returned with the expression of one who is determined to rise above her surroundings, picked up her own drink, kicked off her shoes, and sat cross-legged on the bed.
“Drink,” she suggested, and did so herself. She watched Grace follow suit, and waited for the question that would tell her Grace’s brain was back in some kind of functioning order. Eventually it came.
Grace rested her cup on one of the cigarette burns and focused on Kathryn. Her eyebrows contracted in puzzlement. “Who did you say you were?”
Kathryn explained who she was and how, because she was friends with the Chief of Police, she became involved in what was basically none of her business. She gave Grace a minute or two to digest this information, then asked the classic counselor’s question: “Do you want to talk about it?”
Grace drew a breath, let it out, and drew another breath. She did want to talk about it. But how to convey the chaos of emotions? She remembered the initial shock, then the guilt, then the anger. Some of the anger was gone. She had gotten rid of it with Mike What’s-his-name; she found she didn’t want to remember his name. But in the end that had only produced more guilt, more of the feeling of having become something unrecognizably loathsome. She shook her head, as though trying to dislodge the thought.
The story. She could tell the story. Maybe that would be enough. Enough for what, she wasn’t sure. But she began.
“It was all so fast. So sudden. At one o’clock that afternoon my life was normal. At one-thirty—” She made a small, helpless gesture.
Kathryn said, “At one-thirty it was a disaster, but let’s start back at one.”
“Yes, one o’clock. I was making out the grocery list.” Grace actually achieved a shaky laugh. “I was about to look in the refrigerator to see if we had enough broccoli or whether I needed to buy some more. Can you believe it? Broccoli!” She started to laugh again, but the laugh slipped out of control; her whole face puckered, and she began to cry. She hadn’t cried since that night in San Francisco. Since then, the other emotions had blocked the grief, but now it broke through like a thwarted river sweeping away a dam. Her whole body shook with the sobs.
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