Failure to appear

CHAPTER 2

Following the attendant's detailed directions, I drove out through the end of town, under a freeway, and past a golf course. In the process, as distracted as I was, I couldn't help noticing that this quiet corner of southern Oregon is beautiful country.

The town of Ashland is nestled in a broad valley only a few miles north of the California border. June in Seattle usually carries on gray, rainy, and cold. Here, the atmosphere had a California feel to it-dry and airy. The sky was a clear, untroubled blue.

With the onset of early summer heat, lush grassland had turned gold in sharp contrast to the fringe of the steep oak-and pine-covered hilltops that formed the valley's border. In one fenced field, a single cow stretched her neck to crop scarce but reachable leaves from a few low-hanging branches. That explained why the trees had such a uniform, trimmed appearance. They all looked as if they were subject to constant, loving pruning, and they were-with hungry live-stock doing the trimming rather than people.

I turned off the blacktop of a well-maintained county road onto what the sign said was Live Oak Lane. The word "Lane" vastly overstated the case. Live Oak Rut would have been closer to the truth. Some of the potholes were deep enough that I worried about the well-being of my low-slung Porsche. Luckily, I didn't have far to go. The kid at the gas station had assured me that once I made it to Live Oak, I wouldn't miss the house, since the road dead-ended just past Live Oak Farm.

At first glance, when I saw the house winking at me through a grove of trees, I was surprised. Expecting a disreputable, run-down shack, I glimpsed instead an enormous two-story farmhouse. The place probably dated from back in the days of large families when hard-pressed farmers had homegrown all the kids they could manage. Then as now, kids had meant mouths to feed, but back then they had been a steady source of unpaid labor as well. They provided the extra hands to gather in the crops and get all the chores done. Back then kids had meant survival, not hassle.

As I bounced toward it, I wondered how many kids growing up in that old house had longed to run away from it, to escape dull country life for the excitement of the city. Any city. Now that very same house was a haven-a place to run to-for my city-bred daughter. More of Mrs. Reeder's miserable irony.

Eventually, the road turned and crossed a cattle guard. On a leaning fence post dangled a bullet-marred sign saying LIVE OAK FARM. Behind the sign stood a junkyard full of wrecked cars. Another rutted track, this one far narrower and rougher than the first, wound off through the cars toward the house.

The Porsche thumped noisily over a bumpy set of metal rails embedded in the roadway. As I picked my way between potholes, I tried to glance up now and then to get my bearings. Derelict cars-rusted-out wrecks in various stages of decay-stood parked in haphazard rows that meandered off in either direction. Doors sagged open on broken hinges, and ambitious, sun-loving weeds grew up through the shattered windshields and cracked floorboards.

The newest model I recognized was a once-dashing '67 Chrysler New Yorker. The flattened roof and caved-in sides testified that the car had rolled over more than once on its way to this isolated auto graveyard. It was easy to assume that sometime in the seventies whoever had been running the wrecking yard had exhausted his supply of money or enthusiasm or both.

The track turned sharply as I passed the Chrysler. Coming around the corner, I could see that the New Yorker's broad bench seat had been pried loose from the car and positioned on the far side of the vehicle, possibly as someone's idea of low-cost yard furniture.

A young woman, clad in an almost nonexistent bikini, lay on this open-air tanning bench, soaking up some rays and seemingly oblivious to the sun-rotted foam leaking out of the seat beneath her. It crossed my mind that the sun was probably doing the same kind of damage to her skin that it had already done to the car seat, but I didn't bother stopping to point that out. At that stage of life, kids are immortal-in their eyes, anyway.

Beyond the cars and closer to the house, I drove past the grim remains of a recently blown-down barn. Only three feet or so of roof line were still visible above the pile of weather-beaten, termite-ridden wood. The shattered barn made me dread what I'd find once the house came under closer scrutiny, but my worries proved groundless.

When I was close enough to see it in detail, I noticed that indeed the exterior of the house was as mottled and spotty as a Dalmatian dog, but not from rotting wood or peeling paint that had been left to its own devices. Instead, someone was systematically scraping the old paint off, from the topmost gable of the slate-gray roof to the old-fashioned columns on the broad front porch. A line of newly repainted but not-yet-reinstalled shutters marched in close formation across the front exterior wall.

One sagging corner of the porch had been propped back up and was being held in place by a strategically positioned hydraulic scissors jack. Several uncut lengths of eight-by-twelve lumber lay nearby and were probably intended for permanently shoring up the porch. Another neat stack of two-by-twelves and two-by-fours testified to someone's intention of framing a new set of steps from ground level up to the spacious front deck.

Obviously, someone was hard at work refurbishing the old place. That should have made me feel better, but somehow I couldn't see how Kelly could abandon her comfortable, upscale California nest with her mother and stepfather for this aging Gothic kind of work-in-progress. But still, taking on a complicated renovation project shows a certain amount of initiative, organization, and skill. For the first time, I wondered if maybe the people Kelly was staying with were reasonably okay after all.

I stopped the car, got out, and then found myself stymied. The lumber to rebuild the steps was there, but in the meantime, the stairs themselves were missing altogether. I wondered how visitors were supposed to get close enough to the front door to knock or ring the bell.

Standing only a foot or so away from the porch, I was busy contemplating my predicament when an ugly, gangly yellow dog of indeterminate line-age rose stiff-legged from behind a wooden porch swing. Barking hoarsely, he hobbled toward me. I worried momentarily that the dog might leap off the porch and come after me, but when he got close enough, I could see he was far too old and frail. He stared at me blindly through eyes clouded with cataracts. It seemed to take all the strength he could muster to keep up his croaking but ineffectual bark.

Eventually, the screen door slammed open behind the dog, and a woman marched out onto the porch. "What is it, Sunshine?"

At first I thought the woman was being sarcastic and talking to me, but then I realized she was actually speaking to the dog. She strode over to the edge of the porch, leaned down, and patted the dog soothingly. "It's okay, Sunshine girl," she crooned. "I'm right here."

So Sunshine was a girl. With a strange dog, it's hard to tell that kind of thing from a distance. The woman caught sight of me and frowned, first at me and then at my shiny red Porsche. Since she was so much higher than I was, she appeared to be a giant. Not necessarily a friendly one, either.

"Who are you?" she demanded coldly. "What do you want?"

"My name's Beaumont," I said. "I understand my daughter lives here."

I'm not a particularly good judge of women's ages. She could have been anywhere from her late forties to her early sixties. Her hair, mostly gray, was parted in the middle, braided, and then pulled into some kind of knot at the back of her neck. Wearing boots, jeans, and a man's old dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, she stood on the porch with her arms crossed, staring down at me with the afternoon sun playing off the even planes of her spare, angular features.

I'm not a weight lifter, but I recognize muscle definition when I see it. Since the woman's forearms had plenty of muscle definition, it was safe to assume the rest of her did, too.

"Really. Kelly didn't mention she was expecting visitors," the woman remarked with a coldness that was only one step short of sending me packing.

I wondered what I'd done to merit such open hostility. Before saying anything more, I studied the woman closely. Her face was tan, but without the leathery look that comes from too many years of unrelenting sun. Everything about her was plain except for her eyes. They were a startling shade of violet that hardened to a flinty gray while she gazed down at me.

"It's a surprise," I answered, trying to keep things light. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

"I'll just bet," the woman returned, not bothering to mute her biting sarcasm.

It wasn't going at all well. If this woman was the designated keeper of the co-op's gate, then I would have to find some way around her if I wanted to speak to Kelly.

"Look," I said, drawing myself up to a full-attention stance. "If you'd just tell my daughter I'm here…"

Eyeball-to-eyeball confrontations are just that. The first person to blink loses. My damn car phone rang just then. I lost the glare-down fair and square.

"You'd better go answer your high-priced toy," she jeered.

Trying to maintain my somewhat damaged dignity, I turned and stalked back to the car. Naturally, my caller was Alex. "Did you find Kelly?" she asked.

"I think so."

"You're not sure?"

"Not exactly. I haven't seen her yet. Give me a break, Alex. I just now got here. What gives?"

"Denver found us a room at a place called the Oak Hill Bed-and-Breakfast. We've got tickets to Romeo and Juliet in the Bowmer Theatre tonight and to the opening of Taming of the Shrew in the Elizabethan tomorrow. Denver's going to try to get us in to see The Majestic Kid at the Black Swan tomorrow afternoon, and she's invited us to dinner tonight. Meet us in the dining room at the Mark Anthony at six."

"The Mark Anthony?" I repeated. "Where's that?"

"It's a hotel owned by one of Denver's friends. It's back on the main street, near where you dropped me off. You can't miss it. It's the tallest building in town."

When someone giving me out-of-town directions says the words "You can't miss it," I know I can and will. Miss it, that is. "Right," I said. "See you there."

I put down the phone and turned back to where the woman stood watching me from the porch, her lips curled in grim amusement. The dog, exhausted with the effort of barking, had flopped down at her feet and was snoring noisily. From inside the house came the inviting smells of something cooking, soup or a roast perhaps, and the unmistakable aroma of baking bread. But baking her own bread didn't transform the woman in front of me into Homemaker of the Year or make her the least bit friendly, either. Certainly not to me.

"Well," I said, "is Kelly here or not?"

"It depends," the woman answered gravely.

"On what?"

"On what you want with her."

I was tired. My temper frayed around the edges. "Look," I said testily. "My daughter is a runaway. She doesn't even have a high school diploma. I've come to send her back home to her mother where she belongs."

"Kelly is eighteen years old," the woman pointed out. "What if she doesn't want to go?"

I was losing it. "All day long, any number of people have been quick to remind me about how old Kelly is. She happens to be my daughter. I know damn good and well she's eighteen years old. I also know she isn't old enough to be out on her own. I want her to go back home and finish growing up."

Suddenly, with the graceful agility of a cat, the woman hopped off the porch, landing effortlessly in front of me despite the four-foot drop. Her nimble leap both impressed and depressed me at the same time. My ability to jump like that has all but been eliminated by an ever-increasing assortment of middle-aged aches and pains-including incipient arthritis and heel spurs. Whatever this woman's age was, she certainly wasn't acting it.

Now that we were both on the same level, I discovered the woman wasn't that tall, only about five foot eight or so. From the way she glowered at me, though, she didn't find our relative sizes the least bit intimidating.

"Kelly may not be old enough to live on her own in your estimation, Mr. Beaumont, but in the eyes of the law she's an emancipated young woman. She holds a responsible job. Two, in fact. She pays her rent on time and causes no trouble."

"You're telling me you're her landlord?"

"Landlady," the woman corrected firmly. "So don't think you can come in here and push her around."

"I see, Miss…er…"

"My name is Connors. Marjorie Connors. Mrs. Marjorie Connors."

At least I knew my opponent's name. "Well, Mrs. Connors, I would very much like to see my daughter, if she's home."

"She's out back, playing with Amber."

"Who's Amber?"

"The girl Kelly baby-sits. Amber and her mother live here, too."

"I see. Which way?"

Marjorie Connors didn't move. Her striking eyes never left mine. "You're the policeman, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm a detective. With Seattle P.D."

"You may be a detective in Seattle," Marjorie Connors said pointedly, "but not here. Understand?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that if you try to bully your daughter in any way, I won't hesitate for a moment. I'll call the sheriff. Kelly came here of her own free will. As far as I'm concerned, she's welcome to stay as long as she wants. Do I make myself clear?"

Gorillas have a way of making their wants and desires known. So did Marjorie Connors. "I believe we understand one another, Mrs. Connors. Now, if you don't mind…"

"Come with me," she said, moving toward the back of the house. She set off at a brisk pace, with me trailing along behind. We walked around to a side yard and threaded our way through a collection of ladders. Here, the scraping was finished and painting was well underway. Around the corner, on the back of the house, restoration was complete. Fresh paint gleamed in the sun. A spacious, newly built, multilevel deck covered the entire length of the house. Slotted trellis material lined the insides of the rails, making the deck totally child proof.

"You'll find Kelly in the play area," Marjorie said, pointing down a slight incline to where a small enclosure had been fenced off into a carefully mowed play yard. Inside it I could see a swing set, a small tricycle, and a huge tractor tire filled with sand. The sandbox was shaded by an unfurled Martini and Rossi umbrella that presumably had been liberated from the now-naked table of some unfortunate sidewalk cafe.

At first, I saw no one but a small red-haired child playing alone in the sand. She was enthusiastically pushing a plastic bulldozer back and forth, building mounds and destroying same.

"Kelly," Mrs. Connors called. "Someone's here to see you."

A pair of suntanned, shorts-clad legs appeared under the umbrella. "Who is it?"

At the sound of Kelly's voice, a hard lump formed in my throat. Dave Livingston hadn't been making it up, I realized in sudden relief. Kelly really was here-here and safe both. At least, her voice sounded fine.

"It's me, Kelly," I managed, forcing words out over a fist-sized, throat-closing knot that threatened to cut off all ability to speak or breathe. "It's your dad."

I don't know what I expected. Maybe I thought Kelly would come running up to me with her arms outstretched and her blond braids flying behind her the way they used to when she was little and we were all still living out at Lake Tapps. Instead, the tanned legs stopped moving altogether. She stayed where she was as if frozen, her face and most of her body concealed behind and beneath the spread of that mammoth umbrella.

"Daddy?" she returned uncertainly. "Is it re-ally you? What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

I shot a triumphant glance in Mrs. Connors' direction. With her unblinking violet gaze piercing into me, I somehow caught myself and managed to remember Ralph Ames' cautioning words. Don't blow it, I told myself. Don't say something you'll regret.

With laudable self-restraint, I avoided blurting out the indignant, accusatory things I'd planned to say, such as-"I came to get you and send your ass back home." That would never do.

My problem with telling lies has always been that I'm incapable of carrying the process off with any kind of good grace. As soon as I try it, something in my facial expression gives me away. Generally speaking, that's probably a good thing. It keeps me out of poker games and politics.

This time, though, I did it. From somewhere inside me, I summoned up a set of more acceptable weasel words, ones that allowed both Kelly and me a little room to maneuver. "I came to see how you were," I returned carefully, "to see if you were all right, or if there was anything you needed."

The little girl, Amber, stopped pushing her bulldozer and sat gazing up at Kelly-a Kelly whose body and face were still obscured from view. When she didn't move, I did, starting to close the distance between us, but Marjorie Connors' surprisingly strong suntanned arm barred the way.

"Wait!" she commanded. "You wait right here."

I stopped as ordered. For the longest time, Kelly stayed where she was as well. Then, finally, she came shooting out from behind the umbrella, running toward me just like in the old days.

"Oh, Daddy!" Kelly cried, launching herself at me from four feet away and throwing her arms around my neck in a flying tackle that threatened to carry me over backward. She hugged me and kissed me at the same time. It was exactly like the old days-with two exceptions, one minor and one major. The minor one was easy. The blond braids were gone; Kelly wasn't my little girl anymore. I could live with that.

The major one, I wasn't so sure I could survive. As soon as she stepped out from behind the concealing umbrella, I could see that Kelly Louise Beaumont was pregnant.

Profoundly and undeniably pregnant. Damn!

I held her close, but all the while my mind was on fire. Where the hell is that lousy little son of a bitch of a singing actor now? I wondered. Just let me get my hands on that worthless fucker and…

What is it the Good Book says? Ask, and it shall be given unto you? Sure enough. Jeremy Todd Cartwright III-that no-good jerk who thought he was going to be my future son-in-law-chose that exact moment to make his grand entrance, driving into the yard in a worn old rattletrap Econoline van with three other people in it. He stopped directly beside us.

Kelly was standing on tiptoes with her arms wrapped around my neck, still laughing and crying, while tears ran down her face and dripped onto my shirt.

"Daddy," she said, taking me by the hand and leading me toward the van. "I'm so glad to see you. I wanted to call you and tell you, but I didn't know what to say, where to start. But come meet Jeremy. You're going to love him."

Sure I was! Like hell I was!

Unwillingly, I allowed myself to be led forward. We stopped by the driver's door of the beat-out van just as a long, tall kid in jeans and worn Birkenstocks clambered out. He was six-five if he was an inch, well-built, good looking, and impossibly clean-cut. The son of a bitch didn't have long hair. Or an earring.

He went around to the back of the van, opened the door, and then carefully handed out a series of loaded grocery bags to the other three passengers, who dutifully carried them into the house. Amber toddled up to one of the three-a woman whose hair color matched the child's-and followed her up onto the deck. Only then did Jeremy Todd Cartwright turn around and come back to Kelly and me.

He stopped directly in front of me and looked me in the eye. He didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed.

"Jeremy," Kelly said breathlessly. "Look who's here. It's my dad."

She was holding me by the hand and blubbering joyfully, oblivious to everything around her, including the fact that it was all I could do to keep from reaching out and punching that goddamned upstart kid smack in the face.

"Jeremy, my father, J.P. Beaumont," Kelly continued. "Dad, Jeremy Cartwright. We're getting married Monday afternoon."

And Jeremy Todd Cartwright III, who couldn't have been a day over twenty-three, after one quick questioning look in Kelly's direction, turned back to me, nodded politely but warily, and extended his hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Beaumont," he said.

His toothpaste smile pissed me off. I wanted nothing more than the chance to rearrange his mouthful of too-white, too-straight teeth. But Kelly is my daughter-my only daughter. She's had me wrapped around her little finger from very early on, from the first moment she realized she owned a finger. Jeremy Todd Cartwright put out his hand, and, so help me, I shook it.

What the hell else could I do?