Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 20

Then she turned and headed for home. She wanted to see the video of Marchand's property again, and the photographs of Hilde's house.

In her apartment she took out her last frozen dinner, pot roast with green beans and potatoes. She would slice a tomato to go with it. Dump some prepared dressing on prewashed greens, and voila. Then she got out the video and watched.

She had asked Bailey how he managed to get his videographer onto the property without being challenged, and he had said, "They go to church on Sunday. We moved in." This coming Sunday she, Sh.e.l.ley, and a college track-team member were going to move in again. Now she watched the video as it slowly panned across the rear of the Marchand property. The videographer had stood next to the back porch; then he had moved to the front, near a rose bed, and taped it all again, first from one spot, then another.

Daniel Marchand's statement said he had seen someone at the edge of the brambles when he made his run home the day his father was killed. She got his statement out and reread that part.

Q: Did you see anyone when you were running to the house?

A: Yes, sir. I saw the sun reflecting off of a visor or gla.s.ses or something. Then trees were in the way, and I headed for the front of the house and didn't see him again.

Q: Can you identify that person?

A: No, sir. Like I said, it was just a glimpse before trees were in the way.

Q: But you're sure it was a man wearing a visor cap and or sungla.s.ses?

A: Yes, sir.

Barbara rewound the tape, and began to look over the pictures Bailey had taken of Hilde's house. Everything neat and orderly, no clutter, nothing out of place to all appearances, no shoes on the living-room floor, unlike Barbara's apartment, where she had kicked off her shoes upon arriving home. No cup or gla.s.s on an end table. Barbara scowled at her own winegla.s.s, then got up to refill it. She saw her dinner thawing on the counter in a little puddle of water, read the directions, put it in the oven, and went back to the photographs.

Bed made, spread in place. In the bathroom a hand mirror, hairbrush and comb lined up... Kitchen, dishes washed and put away... Then she stopped flipping over the prints, gazing at one of the living-room sofa, with a newspaper on it. Had Hilde been reading it when something occurred to her, something she had called Frank about?

She squinted at the newspaper; she could not read a word of it, but she had newspapers. Several big stacks of newspapers waiting to be carried out to the recycle bin. A fire hazard, she thought distantly as she started to sort through them. Some of the newspapers were in grocery sacks; most were simply piled up. She found the newspaper for June sixteenth, the day Hilde Franz had been killed, and took it back to the living room.

Reading, she smelled something burning, and realized her dinner was still in the oven. Her brain had tried to warn her, she thought, when she opened the oven door and a cloud of smoke issued forth-fire hazard indeed. She turned off the oven, set the burned dinner on top of the stove and turned on the exhaust fan, then returned to the newspaper.

The paper shown on the sofa was opened, folded to an inside page, not the front page, an ad for mattresses on one side... Barbara found that page, page four, and saw one of the many human-interest stories about the deaths of Gus and Leona Marchand. Sh.e.l.ley was compiling a complete file of all mentions of the murder and the family, and Barbara felt certain she had seen this article, but she had paid little attention to it, well aware that a human-interest story, a sob story, would be of small value to her case. Now she read it thoroughly and very soon she was gritting her teeth.

"... happy, carefree children going off to school with no intimation that within twenty-four hours they were to be orphaned..."

The story detailed the last day of school for both children and their mother, the track-team party in the boys' locker room, Rachel and her girlfriend doing each other's hair, Leona overseeing the decorations of the cafeteria, overseeing the preparation of the party food to follow the graduation, hurrying home to make dinner. The writer had not interviewed the Marchand children; they were both in shock, in seclusion, but she had talked to the boys who drove Daniel home that day.

All three were due to graduate the next day; all three had younger brothers or sisters who would graduate from middle school that evening.... Daniel was very happy; he had received a coveted OSU scholars.h.i.+p for track. But he had missed the bus home because of the party, and he knew it would upset his father if he came home in another boy's car. He had to go home before going out for hamburgers; he had no money with him. He accepted a ride, and they stopped short of the Marchand house, where his friends bet him he couldn't get to the house and back in under five minutes. While they waited, the driver had to back and fill repeatedly to turn the car around to head back toward the highway, and they had to stop twice to let other cars pa.s.s on the narrow winding road, and each time they started over. Laughing, in high spirits, they nevertheless did not want to drive onto the orchard proper.

"I don't know what time it was exactly," Ben Hennessey, the driver, said. "We had a stopwatch, and when he took off, we set the watch. Then, after we got turned around, we started counting down the last sixty seconds. But he made it in four minutes and thirty-two seconds. He was really huffing. He put his head down until he could catch his breath, and we took off for The Station."

And in the next half hour someone entered the Marchand house and murdered Gus Marchand. When his wife was told about the murder, in her panicked haste to return home to be with him, she drove too fast for that narrow, treacherous road with its steep hills. She lost control of her car and ran off the road, and a few hours later she died. What started as a perfect day ended in tragedy. The two Marchand children were orphans.

Barbara frowned at the newspaper; there was nothing in that article that she had not learned from other sources, nothing new, nothing startling. She went through the newspaper page by page; that was the only story concerning the murder. In exasperation she put the newspaper aside, and thought about dinner. Resigned, she went to the refrigerator and found cheese and a tomato, and she saw, to her relief, that she still had some bread.

Tomorrow she would take all those newspapers out, and she would go shopping, stock up. If a videographer came to her place, she thought in disgust, she would be ashamed to let anyone see it. Then she was thinking of Hilde: obsessively neat? Maybe. Loved children. Good administrator. Used romance novels and mysteries for light reading, bathtub reading. Aware that she might have had a shortened life expectancy, and making plans to retire early, save her money, travel... And then falling in love. What a surprise that must have been.

Barbara could well believe a woman like Hilde could fall in love with a man like Wrigley, with his hunger written so plainly on his face. She was drawn to the young, the helpless, children in need. It must have been exciting for her to think of herself as desirable still. Barbara was very much afraid the picture she was drawing of Hilde Franz was one that her father would not even recognize.

27.

In some ways dinner at Frank's house on Sat.u.r.day was a success. After gaping at Sh.e.l.ley's hair, he praised her extravagantly. He told funny stories, they played with the cats, and his food was fine. He thought both Barbara and Sh.e.l.ley relaxed a little, but he had to admit that they had all been on guard in a way that was unfamiliar and unpleasant. If he had hoped to mend fences, the evening had been a failure, he reflected that night when he was alone again. Those fences would not be mended until after Alex Feldman's trial became history, and possibly not then.

And if the prosecution won, if Alex Feldman was found guilty, then what? Frank sat very still in his study and tried to picture a future in which he and Barbara were polite strangers, a dutiful daughter and an aging father who had nothing much to say to each other. He knew she would appeal a verdict of guilty; she was convinced that her client was innocent, that his guilt or innocence would be determined more by his appearance than by evidence. And he had no reason to doubt that Hilde had seen Alex Feldman on his way to the Marchand place that Friday in June. Or if not that, something else d.a.m.ning, like Minick going there.

For a long time he pondered the difference between knowing brought about by hard evidence and belief sustained by faith alone. Barbara believed in her client as fervently as he believed in Hilde. Gus Marchand had believed in his daughter's innocence, had believed that Alex Feldman was a stalker. What if he had learned about the real boyfriend she spent time with? What if he had come to know that she was s.e.xually active? What would Frank have done if he had known that Barbara had been seduced at that age, corrupted at thirteen?

Kill the son of a b.i.t.c.h, was his automatic response, but he knew he would not have done that. He would have separated them, put her in counseling, moved heaven and earth to get the guy sent up for a long stretch. But what would Gus Marchand have done if he had known? From what Frank had learned about him, it was hard to imagine that he would have lodged a complaint and waited for justice to work. He had been a man who lived by certain standards, biblical standards, which often held the victim of seduction as guilty as the seducer. In the eyes of some, rapist and victim were equally guilty.

Belief could come with as much certainty as knowing, or even more, he well understood. Knowledge based on facts could s.h.i.+ft as new facts came to light; scientific experiments could reduce old theories to dust; new paradigms rose with regularity; what one knew on Monday might not be valid on Friday, whereas belief based on faith was immutable. Gus Marchand had made a threat but had not acted on his belief that Alex had stalked Rachel. Had his belief been tainted by doubt?

Or had he been killed to prevent any action? How far would Minick go to protect his young friend? As far as Frank would go to protect Barbara? Maybe, he thought. Maybe.

He realized that both cats had gone into their hunting mode, watching a moth circle the lamp on his desk. Any second one or both might pounce, and there would go the lamp. He turned off the light, then went to stand at his window to gaze at the garden, which turned into a fairyland at night, bathed as it was by ambient city lights. Black and silver, dark and light, deep shadows, glowing whites. And he wished, as he had done as a child addressing unseen fairies, that he and Barbara could end their differences. He wanted her to come home again.

On Sunday morning Barbara and Sh.e.l.ley arrived at the Marchand property at ten. Their runner, Kirby Halleck, was in the driveway when they pulled in. He was a lanky young man dressed in shorts, a tank top, and running shoes, twenty years old, the color of mocha, with big black eyes and very short hair. Barbara and Sh.e.l.ley got out of the car to greet him.

"We have over an hour," Barbara said, "but I'd like to finish well before that, just in case they come home early. What I'd like to do is have you go with us to the place where the boys stopped to let Daniel out. We'll use a stopwatch. You run up to the front door, turn around and run back, and then run in place until four minutes and thirty-two seconds have elapsed. Okay?"

"Sure," he said. He smiled. His teeth were very white and regular. "I already looked over the orchard and the front yard. I'm ready."

With all three of them in her car, Barbara drove to the bridge, turned and drove back to the spot where the boys had stopped. Kirby got out and flexed one leg, then the other. Sh.e.l.ley held a stopwatch, and Barbara said, "Go." As soon as he started to run, she began to back up to turn the car around, the way the boys had done the day of the murder. "Here comes a car," she said, and pulled over again, then started the same maneuver once more. "Another car," she said, and pulled back where she had been. The next time, backing and filling, she got the car turned around, heading toward the bridge over Opal Creek. She picked up a second stopwatch, and they waited for Kirby to appear. It was only a few seconds before he was back at the car and Barbara started her watch. Kirby ran in place until Sh.e.l.ley said, "Time." He stopped, grinning at them; he was sweating profusely, only slightly out of breath.

"Okay?" Barbara asked him.

"Piece of cake," he said.

She showed him the watches, made a note of the times, and asked him to sign it. He had run in place for forty-five seconds. That was about how much time Daniel had had in the house that day, she thought glumly. Not even a minute.

Two weeks later when Frank entered his office and Patsy brought in the mail, she said, "A Dr. Wrigley called to see if you have time to talk to him today or tomorrow. I said I would call back." She placed the mail on his desk.

Frank glanced at his watch: ten o'clock. "See if he can make it at eleven," he said. "Or two this afternoon." As soon as she left, he opened his desk drawer and removed a small tape recorder, checked the batteries, and put it in the top desk drawer, which he left open a crack. The recorder was voice-activated. Then he leaned back to think about Wrigley, and brought to mind what Barbara had said about him: a young and hungry Frank Sinatra. He was forty-one, Frank reminded himself, with a wife and three children now. He began to look through his mail.

Wrigley looked even younger than Frank had antic.i.p.ated, like a graduate student, dressed in a sweater, blue jeans, and Birkenstocks. His students probably appeared more mature than he did. They shook hands, then Frank motioned toward one of the clients' chairs and seated himself behind his desk.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Wrigley fidgeted as if the chair were uncomfortable; Frank knew it wasn't and waited. "I guess I need some advice," Wrigley said. "I thought I had this all figured out, what to say, I mean, and now, I just don't know where to start."

"Advice about what?" Frank said. "That might be a starting point."

"How to change a statement I made to the police, or even if I should change it, I guess." He looked at Frank with a helpless expression, like a child waiting to be patted on the head.

"Go on."

"Right. See, they asked me about my relations.h.i.+p with Hilde Franz, and I didn't tell them the whole story. I know you represented Hilde, so I thought you could tell me what to do."

"Before you continue, I have to remind you that there's no attorney-client bond of confidentiality between us."

Wrigley ran both hands through his hair, then leaned forward and said, "I understand. But I have to talk about this with someone. It's driving me crazy."

Frank nodded. "All right. What was your relations.h.i.+p with Hilde?"

"Let me start farther back. To when we came to Eugene, Rhondi and I, with our son. Three years ago. We decided New York was not a good place to bring up a family. I looked around and put out feelers, and landed a tenured professors.h.i.+p at the university here. We were both happy about that. Exactly the kind of town we were looking for."

He was leaning forward, speaking fast, his gaze on Frank intent, unwavering, yearning for something. "We got busy, civic affairs, a social life; everything was just what we had wanted. I joined the hospital committee and met Hilde there. I liked her; she was intelligent, funny, knowledgeable.... That's all it was, a friends.h.i.+p forming. Then I went to Philadelphia to give a paper, and to my amazement she turned up in the audience. It seemed that she had a teachers' a.s.sociation conference or something at the same time. I had mentioned that I'd be giving the paper, and she had finished with her business and decided to attend my talk, which was open to the public. We had dinner. That's all. I attended the rest of the conference, and I a.s.sumed she just came on back home, and never gave it another thought."

He was squirming, crossing his legs, uncrossing them, running his hands through his hair, and always regarding Frank with that same expectant look, as if waiting for approval, acceptance.

"That was nearly two years ago. A few weeks later I got a note from her, sort of a love letter, I guess. Not signed, just her initial, no return address. I threw it away. When I saw her at the committee meeting, she didn't mention it or Philadelphia. She seemed just the same as she had been before, friendly, no more than that, and I decided a student must have sent the note. I gave her a ride a few times, and it was okay, friendly, nothing more. But she turned up again, in Los Angeles, where I was on a panel at UCLA. I confronted her this time, and she admitted that it was on purpose, she had followed me. I told her to knock it off."

He stood up and began to walk about the room jerkily, now and then turning to look at Frank, as he continued.

"She was stalking me. I couldn't believe it, but she was. She wrote me notes. She sent me a tie, and a book. She would turn up places where she had no business, and never a sign of any of it at the committee meetings. I told Rhondi, of course, and she thought it was funny, this old woman stalking me."

"But you kept giving her rides?"

"Yes. She would bring it up at the meeting, that she was without wheels, and ask if I could drop her off. I didn't know what to say or do. It would have looked funny if I'd said no, and each time she asked if I could pick her up or drop her at her place, it got more awkward. But I didn't know how to get out of it, so I gave her a ride sometimes."

"Is that what you told the police?"

Wrigley shook his head and slumped down in the chair again. "This is what frightens me," he said. "I told them she and Rhondi exchanged books, that I took some books back for my wife, but that isn't true. The last time I gave Hilde a ride home, she had a lot of things to carry, and I helped carry books inside for her. She was upset that night, and asked me to stay and talk a few minutes. She was talking about the murder out at Opal Creek. She said Feldman did it, that she saw him going toward Marchand's house, but she didn't want to be the one to nail him for it. I told her to go to the police.

"I was getting up to leave and she asked me to take the books to the shelves in the bedroom, so I took them in there, and she lunged at me. She begged me to love her just a little, and promised she would leave me alone after that, if I would just love her a little. It... it sickened me. I went into her bathroom and washed my hands, and got out of there. That was the last time I ever saw her."

Frank regarded him without a word. Wrigley returned his gaze, apparently waiting for the advice he had said he wanted. Frank knew what Barbara meant by a hungry look.

"That's it," Wrigley said.

"And you never told anyone," Frank commented.

"Just my wife. It would have destroyed Hilde, totally ruined her to be called a stalker. We thought, Rhondi and I both, that it was like the fixation students sometimes get for a teacher. It happens quite often, but the student moves on and gets over it. We thought she would get over it. And it would have made me a laughingstock if I had told. She was quite a bit older than me, you know. I could imagine some of the jokes my colleagues would have made. We decided the best thing to do was nothing."

He jumped up and started his restless roaming again, then stopped to say, "I told the police the salient part, that I took books in and put them away for her, and that she told me about seeing Feldman that day. I just didn't know if I should tell the rest. I still don't know." He came to the desk and leaned forward. "Will you represent me, see me through this?"

"No."

Wrigley drew back and straightened up. "I guess I'll just have to make up my own mind, won't I?"

"That's always true in the end. You make up your own mind."

Wrigley turned toward the door. "Do I pay at the front desk?"

"There's no charge," Frank said.

Wrigley nodded and walked out.

After a moment Frank opened his desk drawer and turned off the tape recorder. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Ah, Hilde," he murmured.

"I don't know what's on his mind," Barbara said to Sh.e.l.ley and Bailey that afternoon. "He asked if he could sit in on part of our conference, and said he has something for us. That's all I know."

At that moment Maria buzzed to announce Frank's arrival.

"Send him on back," Barbara said.

Frank came in carrying a vase with flowers. He set it down on Barbara's desk.

"You're celebrating?" Barbara asked.

"Conceding," he said. "I need a tape player."

She got one from the closet and watched him plug it in and put in a tape. No one moved or made a sound as they listened to Isaac Wrigley talk.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h," Barbara said when the tape ended.

"Language," Frank said mildly. "Mr. Wonderful himself." He pointed to a new cabinet. "What's that?" He knew he had not bought it, and he had bought most of the furnis.h.i.+ngs in the office; Sh.e.l.ley's father had bought the carpet. Two proud fathers helping their daughters get a start.

Bailey stood up and ambled across the room to open the cabinet door, revealing bottles. He lifted the top to show a tiny sink. "Complete with a refrigerator," he said, and opened the door to it. "It's mine," he said.

"It's not yours," Barbara said. "Company property. Dad, what's that all about?" She motioned toward the tape player.

"He called for an appointment, and that's the result. I think he wanted to make sure that I knew Hilde was a liar, that she misrepresented their relations.h.i.+p with a c.o.c.k-and-bull story, and if she lied about that, no doubt she lied about other things. Or maybe he wanted to see if I'd reveal anything of what she told me. Or a warning about how far he would go if you ride him too hard. Also, he's covering himself in the eventuality that you dig up something incriminating."

Bailey grinned, and Barbara said in annoyance, "Don't smirk. I would have saved my money, if I'd known he was going to blow his own cover. Bailey put him and Hilde in the same hotel in Detroit and in Philly," she told Frank. "Someone must have alerted him to the fact that we were digging that deep. Or he found out that the nanny talked about him and his wife, their domestic scene."

"Will his wife back him up?" Sh.e.l.ley asked.

"Who knows?" Barbara said. "No one's going to get a statement from her, not if he's just a witness for the prosecution. If he becomes a defendant in the murder of Hilde Franz, then they'll get her statement."

Frank nodded. "He overplayed his hand today. After seeing him, listening to him, I can understand how Hilde could have been taken in. But a stalker? Never! Anyway, you can't believe anything he said. One lie's enough to turn it all to garbage. Well, I'll let you get on with it. By the way, Maria gave me a fine weather report when I arrived. Keep her."

He started to rise, and Barbara said, "Dad, can you entertain the belief that Alex Feldman is innocent?"

"Who's the guilty party?"

"I don't know for sure. But I'm not gunning for Hilde Franz. I know she couldn't have done it."

He sank back into his chair. "I can entertain such a belief. Why did you give up on Hilde?"

"The boys were still turning their car around when her car pa.s.sed them. There wasn't enough time for Hilde to get to the house and back and pa.s.s the boys before Daniel returned."

"She could have seen Alex or Minick going into the woods."

"Not really. The Minick driveway curves away from the house, away from the Marchand property, and the growth is pretty dense. There wouldn't be any reason for anyone to stay in sight of the driveway, not if he intended to go to Marchand's place."