"What?" all three asked simultaneously.
"What do you want to bet that Mrs. Cathwaite is domineering and insensitive?"
"Why's that?" Bart asked.
"Because the crossbar on her T is heavier than on the stem."
"Huh?" Lizzie said.
"The note," Erica said. "The professor's wife is the one who forged Tommy's note!" She was as excited as I was.
"You've lost me," Lizzie complained.
"I'll explain later," I said, taking the camera with me. "Buy Bart all the beer he wants, on me."
"Oh, no, you don't. I'm coming too." Bart stood up, looking defiant.
"Oh, what the hell. Come on. Lizzie, the second we've got this figured out, you'll be the first to know."
"Yeah, right." She was clearly miffed, but I didn't have time to explain. I headed for the Jeep, Erica and Bart on my heels.
Chapter Eleven
The minute we got to my place, Bart and I jumped in the lake to wash away the grit of the hike. Erica opted for a shower. Now we were sprawled on the front deck, sipping icy Coronas. I didn't really mind Bart's presence. It saved me from acting on feelings I didn't care to acknowledge — feelings that refused to stay down where I'd buried them. Bart provided a buffer, but besides that, I liked him. I could see why Tommy and he had bonded. They were both guileless, both good-natured, both big-hearted. At the moment, Bart was giggling like a kid.
"You think I ought to tell him?"
"Oh, I don't know, Bart." Erica said. "If you don't tell him, he's liable to spend days and days climbing those trees chasing phony notes."
Bart giggled again.
"Yeah, it sure would be a shame," I chimed in. "Poor old Buck sweating up those trees when the whole time there never was any treasure."
Bart tried to get the giggles under control, but it was a struggle. "It wouldn't be very nice," he said.
"No," Erica agreed. "Poor Buckie."
"But it would kind of serve him right," I said.
Bart gave up the struggle and let himself go. His laughter was infectious. "Ooh-whee! Would it serve him right!" He snorted. He was clearly enjoying the thought of finally one-upping his brother. "But I couldn't wait very long. Just a few days maybe."
"Right," Erica said.
"Or a week at the most."
"Definitely no longer than a month," I said.
"Boy, this is gonna be fun!" Bart said.
Somehow, I didn't think Bart would be able to hold out very long. I gave him a day, maybe two, before his conscience got the better of him.
"Hey, Bart. Something I've been wondering. Are you and Buck the only kids, or do you have brothers and sisters?"
I hadn't told Bart about my uninvited visit to their home, so he didn't know I'd seen the picture.
"Just us," he said. He was still reclined in the chaise lounge, but his body stiffened and all the fun drained from his tone. I waited, wondering what had happened to the girl in the picture. The silence hung between us awkwardly. Finally, he sat up. "We had a sister, but she died."
I pictured the little Shirley Temple in Buck's arms, remembered the way he'd looked at her. "What happened?"
"Long story," he said. He looked up, and to my surprise, there were tears in his eyes. He took a long pull on his bottle and stared out at the lake. "My old man caught my mom in bed with the next-door neighbor. He beat the crap outta the guy, then beat the crap outta my mom, grabbed Leslie and took off."
He paused, like that explained everything.
"Your father kidnapped your sister?"
"Tried to. Buck and me were just coming home from school when we saw them go by. Leslie was pressed against the window screaming for help and we saw my dad backhand her. Buck was always braver than me, but he was still afraid of my father. But when we saw him hit Leslie that day, Buck went ballistic. He took off after them, running down the street screaming at him to stop and let Leslie out. He almost caught up to them, too, because there was a stoplight at the end of the block. But when my old man saw Buck about to catch up, he gunned it right through the intersection. And that's how Leslie died."
He took a deep breath and I realized he'd barely breathed as the words tumbled out in a rush. His cheeks were blotched with emotion and his eyes were wet.
"And your father?"
"They both died in the crash. I wish my father had lived, though, as much as I hated him. Then Buck could've blamed my father instead of. . ." His voice trailed off.
"Instead of what, Bart?"
"Instead of blaming himself for the crash. It's hard to hate someone who's dead. You know what I mean?"
I thought I did. Buck had turned the anger and hatred he felt for his father toward himself. In one day, Bart Bailey had lost his little sister, his father and, for all intents and purposes, his twin brother. Buck had become a walking time bomb and Bart had spent the years ever since trying to stop his brother from self-destructing.
"That's a pretty heavy load you're bearing," Erica said.
Bart looked up, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean, Bart. You let Buck walk all over you because you're afraid if you stand up to him, he might just storm off, and you're all he's got. So you put up with it."
Bart was staring at her wide-eyed, shaking his head. "No. You don't understand. I mean, at least Buck tried to stop him. At least he did something! All I did was yell at Buck to slow down. I was afraid my father would turn around and come after us! I was the coward and Buck knows it. But he thinks I blame him for the accident. Which I don't! I never did. Oh, God. It's so fucking complicated, it makes me sick." By now, Bart had wrapped his arms around his knees and was rocking back and forth.
"You ever talk to someone about this?" I asked gently.
"You mean, like a shrink? Yeah, back in junior high. I went. Buck wouldn't go. Mom tried to make him, but by then no one could make Buck do anything. Especially not her. As much as he blamed himself for causing the crash, he blamed her for having the affair. None of us survived that day, if you want to know the truth. I understand this stuff better than you think. I just can't seem to do anything to change it."
"You think about going again? Now that you're an adult?"
He looked up, narrowed his eyes at me, then nodded. "Yeah, actually. I do think about it. You know, except for Tommy, you guys are the only ones I've ever said this stuff to, except the shrink in junior high. For novices, you're not bad. I actually feel a little better." He grinned, but I knew the pain he felt was simmering just below the surface.
"I know someone," I said, thinking of Maggie. "I'll give you her number. She's good." I ignored Erica's raised brow at that comment and went inside, leaving the two of them on the deck.
Through the window, I could see them talking and knew they'd changed the subject by the occasional laughter and lighter tones coming through the glass. I busied myself with gathering note cards, butcher paper, Scotch tape and colored pens. I taped the butcher paper to the living room window and started making notes on cards. By the time Bart and Erica came in to see what I was doing, I had a dozen note cards taped onto the butcher paper under two headings: Questions and Answers.
"Whatcha doin'?" Bart asked, his good-natured demeanor restored.
"Trying to make sense out of this mess. What do you think?"
Under QUESTIONS I had taped several entries. Who attacked Tommy and why? Why did Ginny Cathwaite forge the Lost Treasure note? What was Newt Hancock doing up on Rainbow Ridge? Who was leaving phony clues on trees and why? Who was the old man in the library? Who was the old man in the tavern? Were they the same person? Was it really Guy Waddell who put a video camera in Lizzie's tavern? If so, who was watching the video? Who was following Erica and why? What do Hancock, Guy, the old man and Ginny Cathwaite have in common?
"That one's the key," Erica said, pointing to the last question.
"You could be right."
"Now all you need's the answers," Bart quipped.
"That's wher
e you come in, Bart. We're going to play a game. Get comfy, guys."
The three of us settled around the living room and proceeded to brainstorm.
"Whatever comes off the top of your head," I said. "No fair taking too much time. Just blurt out your first thought. Okay. Why did someone attack Tommy? I'll take anything."
"To get the fake clue," Bart said.
"To get the picture of Hancock's car."
I glanced at Erica, writing their answers on cards in a hurried scrawl. "What was Hancock doing up there?"
"Checking up on Buck. Maybe he followed him there and thought he was up to no good."
Erica shook her head. "No. I bet he's in on the scam, somehow. Maybe he's the one planting the clues."
"He drives a black Explorer. The guy in the tree today had a white car," I said.
"So, maybe they take turns," Bart said.
I wrote furiously, going through note cards. "This is good, guys. Okay. What's Mrs. Cathwaite's role in this?"
"She bosses Guy Waddell around. He works for the Cathwaites. So he put the video cam up there at her instruction."
"Good, Erica. Why?"
They both looked at me blankly.
"No fair thinking. Just blurt something out."
"She's a pervert. She likes to lie in bed and watch strange men get drunk at the bar," Erica said, looking embarrassed.
Bart giggled. "She's making movies. Only, the stars of the movies don't know they're being taped. Like Candid Camera."
I quit writing and stared at Bart.
"I know, I know. But you said to just blurt something out."
"No. Go on with that. That's really good. What kind of movies?"
"Real ones," Erica said. "Slices of small-town life."
"Boring ones," Bart said, laughing.
"So maybe they're too boring and she makes things happen?" I said.
"Like what?" Erica asked.
"Like the old guy in the bar. Maybe he was a plant."
"I don't get it," Bart said.
"Okay. Pretend this old guy's an actor. He goes to the library, does his research, then goes to the bar and delivers his lines. The camera gets the whole scene on tape. Only you guys don't know you're part of the play."
"Boring!" Bart said again.
"Not really, Bart," Erica said. "Think about it. What that guy told you started a whole string of events. Your brother tried to cheat you, Tommy tried to confront Buck, Hancock followed Buck to the ridge, someone attacked Tommy. Not boring at all."
"But if it's only a game, why did someone try to kill Tommy? I don't know. It seems pretty far-fetched to me. You think Hancock is one of the actors too?" Bart asked.
"Let's change direction for a minute. What do Hancock, Guy and the old man have in common?"
They both thought, came up with nothing.
"Well, let's start by listing what we know. First the old man."
"He was dying," Bart said.
"He said he was dying," Erica corrected. "If we assume he was acting then the whole story could've been part of the act. But if the guy the librarian described was also the man in the bar then we know something about how he really is, assuming he wasn't play-acting in the library."
"Right," I said. "Sharp dresser. Monied. She thought maybe he was a retired doctor. The type to read Shakespeare."
"Sophisticated," Erica said.
"Rich," Bart added.
"Describe Hancock," I said, making notes.
"Vain. Womanizer. A snake," Erica said.
"Sharp dresser?" I prompted.
"Definitely. And well-off."
"So they do have something in common!" Bart said.
"Yeah, maybe they met at Nordstrom's," Erica teased.
"Okay, forget it. Let's go on. What do we know about Guy?"
"Not a sharp dresser," Bart said. "Every time I've seen him, he's wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Skinny guy but strong."
"Works odd jobs, but lives at the Cathwaites'. Maybe he and Mrs. Cathwaite have a thing going," Erica said.
"What about Mr. Cathwaite? Where is he in all this?"
"He's a professor," I said, suddenly thinking of something. "You know what? I think he was at the park when Tommy was attacked. Remember the guy who gave his shirt to Booker? Booker called him Professor. Could be the same guy."
"I remember him," Erica said. "Yellow tennis shirt."
"He's rich, right?" Bart asked. "So he and Hancock and the old man all have money."
"But not Guy," Erica said.
"But Guy works for the professor, right?"
"Right." We all sat wondering where to go next.
"I think we're stuck," Bart finally said.
"We need to find out who drives that white car," I said to Bart. "You think you can take another day off work?"
"You want me to try and track it down?"
"The town's not that big. It's worth a shot."
"He could live in Kings Harbor, though."
I looked at him, not needing the pessimism.
"Okay. Okay. I'll do it."
"Good. Erica, you think you can cozy up to Newt Hancock?"
"Are you kidding? The problem won't be turning him on. It'll be turning him off."
Bart laughed.
"So what do you want me to find out?" Erica asked.
"Whatever you can without being obvious. If he knows the Cathwaites. If he knows Guy. What he was doing up on the ridge. Anything you can think of that will help explain his part in this. But be careful. He absolutely can not know you're grilling him."
"Oh, right. 'Gee, Newt. What nice biceps you have. Get those climbing Rainbow Ridge by any chance?' "
"You'll think of something."
"What are you going to do?" Bart asked.
"Find out everything I can about the good professor. His wife forges the note, his handyman installs surveillance equipment in Lizzie's bar, and he's right there in the thick of things when Tommy gets attacked. Something about the way he offered his shirt that day. I don't know. Maybe he wanted to be close to Tommy, to make sure he wasn't talking."
"Speaking of Tommy, we should call," Erica said. The three of us looked at each other guiltily. For a few minutes, we'd almost forgotten the reason for our investigation. While Bart and Erica called, I taped up more note cards on the chart and stood back, wondering whether the brainstorm session had gotten us any closer to the truth, or if it had led us down the wrong path completely. When they came back into the living room, they were grim-faced.
"No change," Erica said. "Tommy's still in a coma."
Chapter Twelve
It was a relief to wake up Wednesday morning to an empty house. Erica had decided it was safe enough to return to her house and Bart volunteered to sleep on her sofa, just in case. I think in reality he was just afraid to go back to his place and face Buck. At any rate, the cats were glad to be rid of Pepper and I didn't have to worry about running into a naked Erica in the hallway.
After feeding Panic and Gammon, I went through my daily exercise routine, watered the flowers on my back patio, spent a little time in the greenhouse pulling weeds, then went in to make a light breakfast. By nine o'clock, I was ready to face the day.
Kings Harbor Community College sits on one of the prettiest pieces of real estate along the Oregon coast. The Pacific Ocean can be seen through the cedar and fir trees that line the towering sand dunes on the west side of campus. I'd once spent a month posing as a drama student there and was familiar with the buildings and layout of the campus. That morning I parked in front of the administration building and went inside to get a course list for summer classes and a look at the faculty roster.
According to the roster, Professor Cathwaite had a Ph.D. in behavioral science from N.Y.U. and a Master's in psychology from Boston University. I wondered what a big east-coast academic was doing way out west teaching at a small-town community college. The only class he was teaching that summer was an introductory social science class for freshmen, held Tuesday through Thursda
y from eleven to twelve. If I hurried, I could swing by the library for a look at his dissertation, then pop into the lecture hall for a glimpse of the man in action before meeting Martha for lunch.
The college library was small but well-stocked and had a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere. The librarian was a young gay man who was happy to help me find Professor Cathwaite's dissertation, as well as a book he'd written with another local professor named Kip Cage. Maybe that's why Cathwaite had come out west — to work with Cage on the book. I took the two documents to an overstuffed easy chair and settled in for what I assumed would be a dull and dreary dose of academic mumbo-jumbo.
To my surprise, the dissertation was anything but dull and dreary. Not only could Professor Cathwaite write, but his ideas were rather avant garde, as the title — Predicting Human Behavior: A Study in Probability and Personality Traits — suggested. I began by thumbing through the pages but was soon reading every word. Halfway through, I put the dissertation aside and picked up the professor's book. The title, Free Will?, was even more intriguing than the dissertation. I scanned the table of contents and saw that the book was an elaboration on the earlier thesis, but the professor had taken his ideas a step further.
He began by boldly asserting that despite most people's belief that they retained some control over their own actions, they were in fact victims of probability, slaves to their own nature. He dedicated several chapters to the debate over nature versus nurture, then set the argument aside, stating that it made no difference how a person arrived at their character. As adults, he opined, they were locked into predictable patterns, their actions practically foregone conclusions in almost any situation.
To prove his theory, he had used an unwitting class of graduate students as his control group, assessed each one's IQ and personality traits based on a series of tests including the standard Rorschach, Stanford-Binet and handwriting analysis, then accurately predicted each student's response to various stimuli over the course of a semester. The little hairs on my arms and neck were standing straight up as I read how he'd purposely set a fire in the classroom to prove how particular students would respond to the emergency, how he'd purposely placed the answers to a test out in the open so he could prove which students would cheat and which ones wouldn't — the list went on and on.
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