"Nothing that a month of sleep won't cure."
"Give me a call if anything comes up."
He gave instructions to the deputy in charge. By the time he left, much of the dusting, bagging, tagging, and picture-taking was finished and the CSI team was packing up. I found Ann still seated at the dining room table. Her gaze traveled to my face when I entered the room, but she registered no response.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
No reply.
I sat down next to her. I would have taken her hand, but she didn't seem like the type you could touch without asking permission first. "I know Quintana must have asked you this, but did your mother have allergies?"
"Penicillin," she said dully. "I remember she had a very bad reaction to penicillin once."
"What other medications was she taking?'
Ann shook her head. "Just what's on the bed table, and her insulin, of course. I don't understand what happened."
"Who knew about the allergy?"
Ann started to speak and then shook her head.
"Did Bailey know?"
"He would never do such a thing. He couldn't have..."
"Who else?"
"Pop. The doctor..."
"Dunne?"
"Yes. She was in his office when she had the first bad reaction."
"What about John Clemson? Is his the pharmacy she uses?"
She nodded.
"People from the church?"
"I suppose. She didn't make a secret of it, and you know her. Always talking about her illnesses..." She blinked and I saw her face suffuse with pink. Her mouth tightened, turning downward as the tears welled in her eyes.
"I'm going to call someone to come sit with you. I've got things to do. You have a preference? Mrs. Emma? Mrs. Maude?"
She curled in on herself and laid her cheek against the tabletop as if she might go to sleep. Instead she wept, tears splashing onto the polished wood surface like hot wax. "Oh God, Kinsey. I did it. I can't believe it. I actually stood there and injected the stuff. How am I going to live with that?"
I didn't know what to say to her.
I went back into the living room, avoiding the sight of the bed, which was empty now, linens stripped off and carted away with the rest of the physical evidence. Who knew what they might find in the bedding? An asp, a poisonous spider, a suicide note shoved down among the dirty sheets.
I called Mrs. Maude and told her what had happened. After we went through the obligatory expressions of shock and dismay, she said she'd be right over. She'd probably make a few quick telephone calls first, rounding up the usual members of the Family Crisis Squad. I could practically hear them crushing up potato chips for the onslaught of tuna casseroles.
As soon as she'd arrived and taken over responsibility for the office, I went upstairs to my room, locked the door, and sat down on the bed. Ori's death was confusing. I couldn't figure out what it meant or how it could possibly fit in. Fatigue was pressing down on me like an anvil, nearly crushing me with its weight. I knew I couldn't afford to go to sleep, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on.
The phone shrilled beside me. I hoped to God it wasn't going to be another threat. "Hello?"
"Kinsey, it's me. What the hell is going on?"
"Bailey, where are you?"
"Tell me what happened to my mother."
I told him what I knew, which didn't sound like much. He was silent for so long I thought he'd hung up. "Are you there?"
"Yes, I m here."
"I'm sorry. Really. You never even got to see her."
"Yeah."
"Bailey, do me a favor. You have to turn yourself in."
"I'm not going to do that till I know what's going on."
"Listen to me –"
"Forget it!"
"Goddamn it, just hear me out. Then you can do anything you want. As long as you're on the street, you're going to take the blame for whatever happens. Can't you see that? Tap gets blown to hell and you take off like a shot. Next thing you know, your mother's dead, too."
"You know I didn't do it."
"Then turn yourself in. If you're in custody, at least you can't be blamed if something else goes wrong."
Silence. Finally he said, "Maybe. I don't know. I don't like this shit."
"I don't either. I hate it. Look, just do this. Call Clemson and see what he has to say."
"I know what he'll say."
"Then take his advice and do the smart thing for once!" I banged the phone down.
Chapter 22
* * *
I had to get some air. I locked the door behind me and left the motel. I crossed the street and sat down on the sea wall, staring down at the stretch of beach where Jean Timberlake had died. Behind me, Floral Beach was laid out in miniature, six streets long, three streets wide. It bothered me somehow that the town was so small. It had all happened right here in the space of these eighteen blocks. The very sidewalks, the buildings, the local businesses – it all must have been much the same back then. The townspeople were no different. Some had moved away, a few had died. In the time I'd been here, I'd probably talked to the killer myself at least once. It was an affront somehow. I turned and looked back at the section of town that I could see. I wondered if someone in one of the little pastel cottages across the street had seen anything that night. How desperate could I get? I was actually contemplating a door-to-door canvass of the citizens of Floral Beach.
But I had to do something. I glanced at my watch. It was after one o'clock. Tap Granger's funeral service was scheduled for two. He'd have a good turnout. The locals had talked of little else since he was gunned down. Who was going to miss this climactic event?
I crossed back to the motel, where I picked up my car and drove a block and a half to Shana Timberlake's. She'd been out when I'd called this morning, but she'd have to be home now and dressing for Tap's funeral if she intended to go. I pulled in across the street. The little wood-frame cottages in her courtyard had all the charm of army barracks. Still no Plymouth in the driveway. Her front curtains were still as they had been before. Two days' worth of newspapers were now piled near the porch. I knocked at her door, and when I got no response, I slyly tried the knob. Still locked.
An old woman stood on the porchlet of the cottage next door. She watched me with the baggy eyes of a beagle hound.
"Do you know where Shana went?"
"What?"
"Is Shana here?"
She gestured impatiently, turned away, and banged back into her place. I couldn't tell if she was mad because she couldn't hear me or because she didn't give a damn what Shana did. I shrugged and left the front porch, walking between the two cottages to the rear.
Everything looked the same, except that some animal – a dog, or maybe a raccoon – had tipped over her garbage cans and spread her trash around. Very classy stuff. I climbed the porch steps and peered in the kitchen window as I had before. It seemed clear that Shana hadn't been home for days. I tried the back door, wondering if there was any reason to break in. I couldn't think of one. It is, after all, against the law, and I don't like to do it unless I can anticipate some benefit.
As I went down the steps, I noticed a square white envelope among the papers littering the yard. The same one I'd been sniffing at the other day when I talked to her? I picked it up. Empty. Shoot. Gingerly, I began to sort through the garbage. And there it was. The card was a reproduction of a still life, an oil painting of opulent roses in a vase. There was no printed message, but inside, somebody had penned "Sanctuary. 2:00. Wed." Whom could she have met with? Bob Haws? June? I tucked the card in my handbag and drove over to the church.
The Floral Beach Baptist Church (Floral Beach's only church, if you want to get technical) was located at the corner of Kaye and Palm streets – a modest-sized white frame structure with various outbuildings attached. A concrete porch ran the width of the main building, with white columns supporting the composition roof. One thing about the Baptists, they're not goi
ng to waste the congregation's money on some worthless architect. I'd seen this particular church design several times before, and I pictured ecclesiastical blueprints making the rounds for the price of the postage. A florist's truck was parked out on the street, probably delivering arrangements for the funeral.
The double doors were standing open and I went inside. There were several paint-by-the-numbers-style stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus in an ankle-length nightgown that would get him stoned to death in this town. The apostles had arranged themselves at his feet, looking up at him like curly haired women with simpering expressions. Did guys really shave back then? As a child, I never could get anybody to answer questions like that.
The interior walls were white, the floor covered in beige linoleum tile. The pews were decorated with black satin bows. Tap Granger's coffin had been placed down near the front. I could tell Joleen had been talked into paying more than she could afford, but that's a tough pitch to resist when you're in the throes of grief. The cheapest coffin in the showroom is inevitably a peculiar shade of mauve and looks as if it's been sprayed with the same stuff they use on acoustic ceilings to cut the sound.
A woman in a white smock was placing a heart-shaped wreath on a stand. The wide lavender ribbon had "Resting In The Arms Of Jesus" written on it in a lavish gold script. I could see June Haws in the choir loft, rocking back and forth as she played the pipe organ with much working of the feet. She was playing a hymn that sounded like a tender moment in a vintage daytime soap, singing to herself in a voice with more tweeter than woofer. The bandages on her hands made her look like something newly risen from the dead. She stopped playing as I approached, and turned to look at me.
"Sorry to interrupt," I said.
She put her hands in her lap. "That's all right," she said. There was something placid about her, despite the fact that the tincture of iodine was working its way up her arms. Was it spreading, this plague, this poison ivy of the soul?
"I didn't know you doubled as the organist."
"Ordinarily, I don't, but Mrs. Emma's sitting with Ann. Haws went over to the hospital to counsel Royce. I guess the doctors told him about Oribelle. Poor soul. A reaction to her medication, was it? That's what we were told."
"Looks that way. They'll have to wait for the lab reports to be sure."
"God love her heart," she murmured, picking at the gauze wound around her right arm. She'd taken her gloves off so she could play. Her fingers were visible, sturdy and plain, the nails blunt-cut.
I took the card out of my bag. "Did you talk to Shana Timber-lake here a couple of days ago?"
Her eyes flicked to the card and she shook her head.
"Could your husband have met with her?"
"You'll have to ask him about that."
"We haven't had a chance to talk about Jean Timberlake," I remarked.
"She was a very misguided girl. Pretty little thing, but I don't believe she was saved."
"Probably not," I said. "Did you know her well?"
She shook her head. Some sort of misery had clouded her eyes and I waited to see if she would speak of it. Apparently not.
"She was a member of the youth group here, wasn't she?"
Silence.
"Mrs. Haws?"
"Well, Miss Millhone. You're a mite early for the service, and I'm afraid you're not dressed properly for church," Bob Haws said from behind me.
I turned. He was in the process of shrugging himself into a black robe. He wasn't looking at his wife, but she seemed to shrink away from him. His face was bland, his eyes cold. I had a vivid flash of him stretched out across his desktop, Jean performing her volunteer work.
"I guess I'll have to miss the funeral," I said. "How's Royce?"
"As well as can be expected. Would you like to step into the office? I'm sure I can help you with any information you might be pressing Mrs. Haws for."
Why not? I thought. This man gave me the creeps, but we were in a church in broad daylight with other people nearby. I followed him to his office. He closed the door. Reverend Haws's ordinarily benevolent expression had already been replaced by something less compassionate. He stayed on his feet, moving around to the far side of his desk.
I surveyed the place, taking my time about it. The walls were pine-paneled, the drapes a dusty-looking green. There was a dark green plastic couch, the big oak desk, a swivel chair, bookcases, various framed degrees, certificates, and biblical-looking parchments on the walls.
"Royce asked me to deliver a message. He's been trying to get in touch. He won't be needing your services. If you'll give me an itemized statement, I'll see that you're paid for the time you've put in."
"Thanks, but I think I'll wait and hear it from him."
"He's a sick man. Distraught. As his pastor, I'm authorized to dismiss you on the spot."
"Royce and I have a signed contract. You want to take a peek?"
"I dislike sarcasm and I resent your attitude."
"I'm skeptical by nature. Sorry if that offends."
"Why don't you state your case and leave the premises."
"I don't have a 'case' to state at this point. I thought maybe your wife might be of help."
"She has nothing to do with this. Any help you get will have to come from me."
"Fair enough," I said. "You want to tell me about your meeting with Shana Timberlake?"
"Sorry. I never met with Mrs. Timberlake."
"What do you think this means, then?" I said. I held the card up, making sure the penned message was visible.
"I assure you I have no idea." He busied himself, needlessly straightening some papers on his desk. "Will there be anything else?"
"I did hear a rumor about you and Jean Timberlake. Maybe we should discuss that as long as I'm here."
"Any rumor you may have heard would be difficult to substantiate after all this time, don't you think?"
"I like difficulty. It's what makes my job fun. Don't you want to know what the rumor is?"
"I have no interest whatever."
"Ah well," I said. "Perhaps another time. Most people are curious when gossip like this circulates. I'm glad to hear it doesn't trouble you."
"I don't take gossip seriously. I'm surprised you do." He gave me a chilly smile, adjusting his shirt cuffs under the wide sleeves of the robe. "Now, I think you've taken up enough of my time. I have a funeral to conduct and I'd like to have time alone to pray."
I moved to the door and opened it, turning casually. "There was a witness, of course."
"A witness?"
"You know, somebody who sees somebody else do something naughty."
"I'm afraid I don't follow. A witness to what?"
I fanned the air with a loose fist, using a hand gesture he seemed to grasp right away.
His smile was losing wattage as I closed the door behind me.
Outside, the air seemed mercifully warm. I got in my car and sat for a few minutes. I leafed through my notes, looking for unturned stones. I don't even know what I was hoping to find. I reviewed the information I'd jotted down when I went through Jean Timberlake's school records. She'd lived on Palm then, just around the corner from where I sat. I craned around in the seat, wondering if it was worth it to go have a look. Oh hell, why not? In lieu of hard facts, I might as well hope for a psychic flash.
I started the VW and headed for the old Timberlake address. It was only one block down, so I could have left the car where it was, but I thought I'd better free up a parking space for the hearse. The building was on the left, two stories of shabby, pale green stucco jammed up against a steep embankment.
As I approached, I realized there was nothing much to see. The building was abandoned, the windows boarded up. On the left, a wooden staircase angled up to the second floor, where a balcony circled the perimeter. I climbed the stairs. The Timberlakes had lived in number 6, in the shadow of the hill. The whole place looked dreary. The front door of their apartment had a perfect round hole where the knob should have been. I pu
shed the door open. The veneer had been splintered, leaving stalagmites of lighter wood showing along the bottom edge.
The windows here were still intact, but so grimy that they might as well have been boarded up. The incoming light was filtered by dust. Soot had settled on the linoleum floors. The kitchen counters were warped, the cabinet doors hanging by their hinges. Mouse pellets suggested recent occupancy. There was only one bedroom. The back door opened off this bedroom onto the rear of the building, where the balcony connected to a clumsy stairway anchored to the side of the hill. I looked up. The sheer sides of the dirt embankment were eroded. Dense vines spilled over the lip of the hill maybe thirty feet above. Up there, at the top, I caught a glimpse of a private residence that boasted a spectacular view of the town, with the ocean stretching off to the left and a gentle hill on the right.
I returned to the apartment, trying to roll back the years in my mind. Once this place had been furnished, not grandly perhaps, but with an eye to modest comfort. From gouges in the floor, I could guess where the couch had been. I suspected they'd used the dining ell as a sleeping alcove, and I wondered which of them had slept there. Shana had mentioned Jean's sneaking out at night.
I passed through the bedroom to the back door and studied the rear stairs, letting my eye follow the line of ascent. She might have used these, climbing up to the street above, where her various boyfriends could have picked her up and dropped her off again. I tested the crude wooden handrail, which was flimsily constructed and loose after years of disuse. The risers were unnaturally steep and it made climbing hazardous. Many of the balusters were gone.
I trudged upward, huffing and puffing my way to the top. A chain-link fence ran along the crest of the embankment. There was no gate now, but there might have been at one time. Carefully I turned my head, looking back over the neighborhood from above the rooftops. The view was heady – treetops at my feet, the town spread out below – creating a mild vertigo. A parked car was about the size of a bar of soap.
I studied the house in front of me, a two-story frame-and-glass structure with a weathered exterior. The yard was immaculate and beautifully landscaped, complete with a swimming pool, decking, a hot tub, a Brown-Jordan glass-topped table and chairs. Situated anyplace else in town, the property would have required shielding shrubs for privacy. Up here, the owners could enjoy an unobstructed 180-degree view.