Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 11

"Dr. Minick," she said cautiously, "you've done a remarkable job of rehabilitating a desperate young man. You have made him whole and complete, but he needs you and always will. A child needs the parent."

After a moment he nodded. "Thank you, Barbara. Let me show you something I treasure beyond words."

He stood up and hurried from the room, and returned with a framed picture, which he handed to her. It was one of Alex's drawings, a tent with strange feet, and a stranger top that might have been a head with a lightbulb nose under a great wide-brimmed hat.

"That's me, how Alex saw me the day we met," Dr. Minick said. ''It was snowing. That figure appears now and then in his strip Xander. The lightbulb glows when he sees something bad is about to happen. When the light goes on, the boy Timmy clutches his head; there is communication of some sort, and he turns into Xander and is off to the rescue."

She smiled at the drawing and handed it back. "Point taken," she said.

"Yes. Exactly. One day you'll probably become a character in his strip. It will be interesting to see how he treats you."

She laughed. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that. How would he treat Sh.e.l.ley?"

"Like the princess on the gla.s.s hill. You know the fairy tale? She lives on top of a gla.s.s mountain so smooth that no one can climb it, although many try."

"That's very sad," Barbara said.

"Yes, it is. Now, what did you want to tell me, or have me tell you?"

"It's about Hilde Franz-her death, specifically. I have her autopsy report, and I'd like an expert opinion of what it means. Okay?"

He nodded, and she handed the autopsy report to him, then watched him read it. When he finished, he said, "What's your question about it?"

"Would that medication kill her? Why did she die in her sleep?"

"Ah, I see. Meperidine HCl, a muscle relaxant, a.n.a.lgesic, narcotic: powerful medicine. I've never done forensic medicine. I'd have to know how much she took, if she had built up a tolerance, if it was oral or IV -administered. How much had she already metabolized. They probably were looking for meperidine, since she had the prescription, but were they looking for anything else after they found that?"

"It was all there was in her house. An oral dose, capsules," Barbara said. "She made a phone call at about eleven, and the estimated time of death is between one and three in the morning."

"Capsules. Just a second," he said, and left the room again, this time to return with a thick book, which he consulted. "Capsules come in fifty-milligram doses. So, if she had not built a tolerance and took just one, she probably would have relaxed enough to have a restful sleep. Two, a deeper sleep; she might have slept through a thunderstorm. Three is getting rather heavy for her weight; sleep would have been much deeper. She would have been hard to awaken. Four at one time could have edged into the danger zone. Do they know how much she took?"

"Let's just a.s.sume a fatal overdose," Barbara said. "No one knows how many she had. What would the progression be?"

"Depends on the dosage, of course. Palpitations, sweating, hypothermia, coma, paralysis, apnea, cardiac arrest, death. Depends on the dose, her physical condition, what she had eaten prior to taking the medication; the autopsy report indicates that her last meal was six to eight hours before her death." He shook his head, as if trying to shake away other memories.

"Barbara, I've seen people go through the same array of symptoms from taking two aspirins. What was her prescription for? Did she tolerate it in the past? There are many questions to be answered before you can a.s.sume a fatal overdose."

"She used it a couple of years ago," Barbara said, puzzled by the intensity of his gaze, a new harshness that had come into his voice. ''It was labeled to be taken three or four times a day, and she took it for at least two days, then one at bedtime for a while. If she had not tolerated it then, it doesn't seem likely that she would have kept the remaining capsules."

"People change," he said. "But if she was confident about how she would react to the medication, then she would have known better than to take more than one or two at the most. What are you suggesting? That she overdosed on purpose? Suicide?"

Barbara shook her head. "I don't know. Could she have been certain an overdose would kill her?"

"No. More likely she would have gone into a coma, suffered brain damage. The autopsy says no signs of a struggle. She fell asleep and never woke up, but she couldn't have counted on that to happen. She was too intelligent not to know that. She wouldn't have risked brain damage and possibly a vegetative existence afterward."

The harshness in his voice made her want to apologize, retreat, close the subject and not refer to it again. Of course, Alex had tried to commit suicide with prescription medication and alcohol, and for years Dr. Minick had served as a children's psychologist, a crisis manager. He must have seen many suicides.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know I appear heartless, trying to make the death of a woman fit into a big puzzle. I didn't mean it that way. You've been helpful, and I'm grateful." She stood up. "I should be on my way."

Dr. Minick got up and handed her the autopsy report. "In my years of practicing medicine, and then as a psychologist, I've seen people die who should have lived, and I've seen some live for whom we had given up hope. I'll never believe that Hilde killed herself purposely or that she killed herself accidentally by taking an overdose. That leaves the mysterious hand of G.o.d, I suppose, and I tell you this, I have come to hate that hand with all my soul." He turned away. "I'll get that other hate literature for you."

He left and returned with a manila envelope, which she stuffed into her briefcase without a glance.

"Those people," he said, watching her stow it away, "walk the earth sowing hatred, and good people like Hilde and Leona are swept away. Why? That's the real mystery of the universe. I'm glad you came today."

"I am, too," she said. She held out her hand, but to her surprise he clasped her to him in an embrace, and she was strangely comforted by it.

At seven o'clock she pulled into Frank's driveway and entered the house. Frank looked better than he had that morning. He had slept and loafed and read, he reported, and there was cheese and wine in the kitchen, and dinner on the way. He had ordered pork loin in wine-garlic sauce from Martin's for both of them. She groaned at the thought of real food, and headed for cheese to tide her over.

Then, in the kitchen nibbling cheese, trying to resist filling up on it, she told him about her day. She did not mention the name of the doctor she had consulted. "So," she said, wrapping it up, "two years ago, if Hilde took from six to eight of the capsules the first two days, then one a night for the next seven, that means she used thirteen to fifteen out of thirty of the capsules, leaving fifteen to seventeen, or thereabouts. With a strained muscle that's a reasonable guess. We'll a.s.sume that she didn't use them again until now. Anyway, they found fourteen, which means she could have taken one or two, three at the outside, and that wouldn't have been enough for a fatal overdose. So I don't know where that leaves us."

Frank had listened without a word. He moved the cheese platter out of her reach almost absently. "I don't like coincidences," he said after a moment.

"Right. What time did you tell Martin?"

"Between seven and seven-thirty. I talked with Hilde's insurance agent; there's a video of the house contents, he said. He advised her to put it in her safe-deposit box. And I called Hilde's brother. They will have her funeral on Friday, and he agreed that I should empty her safe-deposit box and have everything ready for him to pick up on Sat.u.r.day. I'll empty the box tomorrow."

She poured more wine. "And we don't have a clue about what Mr. Wonderful, or whoever it was, was after. What usually happens in a situation like this? The family comes around to look over the house, then what?"

Frank shrugged. "They'll tag things they want to keep, more than likely, haul them away, and then have an estate sale. It will take time, a couple of weeks more than likely before that happens."

"Then anyone could walk in and plop down a dollar or two and take out whatever it is he's after. No one the wiser."

"Maybe. Sometimes a dealer will make an offer, for antiques, or art, things of that sort, and take them all for a flat price. Someone could offer a hundred dollars for all the books, for instance, and take them away, the worthwhile and the worthless, and sort them later."

Their food arrived, and Alan came in to eat with them. No one talked business as they ate; it would have been sacrilegious to discuss anything except food: tender green beans, asparagus in a lemon sauce, pork loin with more than a hint of garlic in a wine sauce, tiny new potatoes....

"You should take up lunch," Frank commented, watching Barbara help herself to more of everything. "Good habit to get into, lunch."

"I don't know," she said. "I'll have to walk an hour to compensate for food like this. If I ate this way through the whole day, all I'd have time for would be meals and exercise."

"No mountain climbing over the weekend?" Frank asked.

"Nope. Law library all weekend." She looked at him quickly, as if regretting her words, and there it was back between them. She was involved in something she wouldn't talk about. A careful neutral expression settled on Frank's face. And she said, "Now I am going to take a walk. Start the digestive juices flowing."

Alan started to rise and she waved him down again. "Finish eating. Your job is to keep an eye on the house and Dad. The park's full of people this time of day, and I'll be back before dark."

It didn't leave her a lot of time, she reflected a few minutes later, walking on the bike trail by the river. It was eight o'clock already, but the park was full of people.

She walked faster as an idea began to take shape, and presently she turned and retraced her steps to Frank's house. It was after nine and, to her regret, he looked worried.

"I'll have coffee now," she said, "and then tell you an idea I had."

At the dinette table she said, "We could stake out the house and nab him if he shows up again, but chances are he'll just wait for the family to take things away and go after it in Medford, or wait for that sale you mentioned and get what he's after then. What if he sees a van with an antique dealer's name, someone who buys collectibles, books, art, things of that sort? He might want to enter at night and retrieve his own collectible before everything is boxed up and put some place with real security."

Frank shook his head. "I don't want to bring in a dealer. That might even put someone in danger."

"Bailey could arrange it," she said. "One of his people could become a dealer for a few hours."

"You'd still need a stakeout at the house."

"I know," she said. "I think the guy is an opportunist. Maybe if he sees a dealer's van, he'll move again. If not, then it's just money, Dad."

"Right, and if it comes out of Hilde's estate, I'll have to account for it." He scowled, then nodded. "I surely do not want him to follow someone down to Medford to pick up whatever he's after." Then he said, "I'll give Bailey a call. Maybe someone should stay in the house overnight, just in case he doesn't wait for your little play to be staged."

She finished her coffee, then poured another cup while he called Bailey and explained what they wanted. "Done," he said. "You planning to stay up all night?" He was frowning at her coffee.

"Work to do," she said. She wanted to browse in Frank's law library. Also she had not had time to make notes yet or to examine the items she had brought home from the school, which included another telephone/address book. "Okay if I use your study?"

"Help yourself. I'm going to soak again and then go to bed."

At ten-thirty Alan came to the study door, tapped, then opened it and entered. "Bailey's on the phone," he said, and handed her his cell phone.

"What's up?" she asked Bailey.

"Your dad in bed?" Bailey asked.

"Yes. Just tell me."

"We're too late at the Franz house. Someone broke a back window and got in. Chris just called me. Do we bring in the police?"

"s.h.i.+t!" She thought a moment, then said, "No police yet. We'll discover the break-in in the morning. Is the house a mess?"

"Nope. Looks like your guy went in and got what he was after and hightailed it out again. Neat and slick."

"Tell Chris to stay put, and in the morning I'll meet you there at eight."

After Alan left with his cell phone, she sat at Frank's desk, drumming her fingers. Under her breath she muttered, "Okay, your round, Mr. Wonderful." Neat and slick, she thought, also opportunistic and fast on his feet. And, so far at least, very lucky.

16.

The following day Barbara and Sh.e.l.ley were in Barbara's office, glum and dissatisfied.

"The cops had it all figured out. A neighborhood kid out rattling doork.n.o.bs. You know, if one gives, you walk in and pick up whatever you want and walk out. He got spooked when he saw Dad, lashed out at him, and beat it, then came back late at night. Not a pro; he would have taken everything not nailed down. The cops think he was looking for cash."

"Did anyone bring up a possible man in her life?" Sh.e.l.ley asked.

"Dad did. Hoggarth said, So what? They are satisfied with the cause of death, and if she had a fellow, it's none of his business."

Barbara scowled at the wall. ''I'm worried about Alex," she said. "He's getting cabin fever. We can't keep him a prisoner at Will's place much longer. I wonder if we shouldn't lease a car for him. At least he'd be able to get out and hike somewhere."

"Having his own car will help," Sh.e.l.ley said. "I can take care of that. Get it in my name. Want me to give him a call and clear it with him?"

Barbara hesitated, a little uneasy, then nodded. "Not a Jaguar," she said. "Not red, not a sporty little thing. Something inconspicuous. Okay?"

Sh.e.l.ley laughed. "I'll ask him his preference."

"Well, I'm off. I told Dad I'd pick him up at four."

Frank's "nephew" Herbert had arrived that morning in a dilapidated, rusty, rattling pickup truck; he was a big, jovial man with a beer belly, florid complexion, twinkling blue eyes, and a fierce Texas accent, dressed in baggy jeans, cowboy boots, and a stained cowboy hat. He had greeted Frank as Uncle, and Barbara as Cuz. If he tried to hug her, Barbara had thought, a swift knee to the groin would have been called for.

When they arrived back at the house, they saw him on the front sidewalk talking and laughing with one of Frank's neighbors. The only thing Cousin Herbert had going for him, Barbara thought darkly, was the fact that Bailey had hired him, and Bailey got good people. But to her eyes, Cousin Herbert looked like a hopeless drifter dodging an ex-wife or two.

"Howdy!" Herbert called when they got out of Barbara's car.

The neighbor waved and wandered off, still laughing, and Herbert lumbered toward the house. "Uncle Frank, this is sure a pretty house y'all got here," he said in a loud voice. "But it sure needs a coat of paint. Here, let me show y'all something." He pulled out a pocketknife and attacked the rail of the front stoop. "See, needs paint."

Frank winced. "Stop gouging my house."

"Didn't touch the wood," Herbert said. "Look up there, those blisters by the downspout? First thing you know, they pop, water gets in, and rot takes out the whole front. Needs paint."

In spite of herself, Barbara looked up. If there were blisters, she could not see them.

"I'm going in," Frank said, and stomped to the door, muttering something mildly obscene. Barbara followed.

''I'll just mosey on around the house and see how bad it gets," Herbert said.

"I'm going to kill him," Frank snarled inside the house.

Barbara considered it. He probably didn't mean Herbert; he didn't know him well enough. Bailey then. She nodded. "He can use a little killing now and then. Cousin Herbert is a treasure, isn't he?"

Frank glared at her and stormed off to the kitchen. When Bailey arrived ten minutes later, coffee was made and Frank was rummaging through the refrigerator, still muttering.

"Where on earth did you find that gorgeous hunk outside?" Barbara asked.

Bailey gave her a suspicious look. "You mean Herbert?" He dropped his denim bag on the floor by the table and sat down. "Don't let first impressions con you," he said. "He's been around. FBI training, a rodeo performer for years, a tour of India, picking up some kind of meditation or something."

"What we need," Frank said bitterly. "A circus performer."

"And he can shoot the fleas off a dog at a hundred yards," Bailey continued. "Herbert's problem is that he doesn't want to stay in one place. He can paint, fix your car, put in plumbing, you name it. He can even cook."

If Frank was mollified, it did not show. He sat down and motioned toward the carafe and cups. "Help yourselves. What do you have for us?"

Before they started, Herbert tapped on the sliding-gla.s.s door. Bailey waved him in.

"Mr. Holloway," he said, "Bailey says you were roughed up a little and might not feel too well, and seeing that I've got nothing to do right now, I thought I might go buy a fish or something for all of us and use that beautiful grill you have out there. You have a beautiful garden. Okay if I pick stuff to go with fish? I don't guess you can get redfish in these parts, can you?"

"I thought we might order something," Barbara said quickly.

"Nah. With all those beautiful vegetables out there, and that great grill? I'll just go see what I can find while Bailey's still here." He backed out the door, grinning at them all, and left.

Bailey picked up his denim bag, gave Frank a hurried glance, then said, "Relax. He was a chef at Antoine's in New Orleans for a while. Now, about these names."