Failure to appear

CHAPTER 5

No doubt things would have gone more smoothly if the dead man hadn't turned out to be someone else I knew from Seattle. It seemed as though the whole goddamned city had jumped in their cars and followed me down 1–5 to Ashland. I half expected my old hometown nemesis, Maxwell Cole-the intrepid, walrus-mustached columnist from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer-to turn up any minute for an impromptu interview. I was surprised he didn't.

An hour and a half later, after the emergency-room doctor finished stitching my wrist back together, I found myself closeted in a small conference room in Ashland's Community Hospital while Gordon Fraymore, Ashland's sole police detective, swallowed Tums by the fistful and gave me a going-over.

Fraymore was older than I by a good five years, which meant he had been a cop that much longer as well. Since we were both long-term police officers, it seems reasonable that we would see eye-to-eye. We didn't. Not at all. He took an instant dislike to me. Just because cops are sworn to uphold the peace doesn't mean some of them won't be assholes. That's how Gordon Fraymore struck me-a born asshole.

"Tell me again how it is you happen to know this Martin Shore character," Fraymore said, drumming his fingertips impatiently on the smooth Formica tabletop.

The murder victim's identification had been accomplished through picture I.D. discovered on the body. As soon as Detective Fraymore mentioned Martin Shore's name aloud, I realized I knew him.

"I already told you."

"Tell me again."

"Shore had his own private-investigation firm up in Seattle. Specialized in criminal-defense-type work and some insurance claims. We ran into each other now and again, usually at the court-house. I knew him, but just in passing. We weren't friends by any means."

I neglected to mention the degree to which Martin Shore and I weren't friends. His offices were in a run-down part of Georgetown, a neighborhood in Seattle's South End. Scuttlebutt had it that Shore was an ex-cop who had been drummed off the force in Yakima, Washington, where he was alleged to have been moonlighting as a porno distributor. He weaseled out of the charges without even having to cop a plea. Given that kind of history, I don't know how he managed to come up with a P.I. license, but then, I don't work for the Department of Licensing.

I'm not fond of private investigators, so Martin Shore started out with one strike against him. In my book, porn dealers are the scum of the earth. Strike two. Since this was a murder investigation, it seemed best to keep those very personal opinions well under wraps. Rat or not, Martin Shore was dead, and Gordon Fraymore was the detective charged with finding his killer. Fraymore was casting his net in every direction, and I didn't want to wind up in it. Actually, Fraymore already had himself one convenient scapegoat-Derek Chambers, the unfortunate driver of the Duster, who was still waiting and agonizing somewhere in the hospital.

From a few things he said, I suspected Fraymore was somewhat confused, that he had inadvertently mixed up exactly who had been driving what. He was off on a wild tangent, thinking the woman had been driving the Duster and Derek Chambers the Cutlass. And while Fraymore blundered around in total ignorance, Derek and his worried parents were isolated in a hospital room down the hallway with a uniformed cop standing guard outside the door.

I wish I could say those kinds of mistakes never happen. I can't. I've made a few of them myself. In the heat of a new investigation, when a cop is working under incredible pressure, one piece of a puzzle unaccountably gets shifted to the wrong side of the board. With any kind of luck, the detective realizes where he went wrong and corrects his mistake, straightening out both his mind and his paper before any harm is done.

As an impartial observer of events in Ashland, I found it easy to see what was happening. I wondered how long it would take for Gordon Fraymore to wise up. It sure as hell wasn't my job to point out the error of his ways. Cop or not, Fraymore struck me as a heavy-handed jerk. The longer the mix-up was allowed to continue, the more harm it would do to Derek Chambers and the more embarrassing it would be for Detective Fraymore. In fact, if it hadn't been for what Fraymore's stupidity was doing to Derek and his anguished parents, I could have cared less.

"Let me ask you this," Fraymore was saying. "Did you have any idea Martin Shore was going to be in Ashland this weekend?"

"None whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I didn't know I would be until just yesterday morning."

Fraymore frowned. "I thought you said your daughter was getting married, that you came here for a wedding."

"I didn't know about the wedding until yesterday, either," I snapped. Gordon Fraymore could go ahead and draw his own conclusions on that score. "I may have been late getting my invitation," I added, "but the wedding is scheduled for two-thirty Monday afternoon, if you want to check it out."

"Oh, I'll do that," Gordon Fraymore assured me. "Most definitely. I'll be checking everything. Twice if necessary. Tell me again what you were doing just prior to your being found at the crime scene?"

I took a deep breath and told him again. "I left the donor party in the Bowmer. I told Alex I wanted to get some air."

"I take it Alex is Alexis Downey, the lady waiting for you out in the lobby?"

I nodded.

"She your wife?"

"We're just good friends," I answered.

"I see. Where exactly did you go when you went out to get some air?"

"Out into that little brick courtyard between the theaters and the ticket office. I was standing near the telephone booths looking up at the stars when I first heard the crash. As soon as I heard it, I knew what it was. I ran down the stairs between the buildings to see if I could help."

"Commendable," Gordon Fraymore said. "Did you see anybody else on the stairs or in the courtyard?"

"No."

"Hear anything?"

"Other than the crash and breaking glass? No."

"I understand you work Homicide in Seattle?"

I didn't remember telling him that. "That's right."

"You're sure there isn't a chance that Martin Shore screwed up one of your cases and you decided to get even?"

"There's no chance." It was time for a little cop-to-cop courtesy. "Look, I'm tired. My arm hurts. Can't we finish this tomorrow?"

"Where are you staying?"

"One of the B and B's. Oak something."

"Oak Hill?"

"Probably. Sounds like it, but I don't remember for sure."

"Both you and Miss Downey are staying there?"

"Ms. Downey," I corrected. If I couldn't get away with calling Alexis "Miss," then neither could Gordon Fraymore. "That's right. We're both staying there."

"Why not with your daughter?" he asked pointedly. "Didn't Marjorie Connors offer to put you up?"

I wasn't in the mood to discuss my daughter or Marjorie Connors' singular style of nonhospitality, and where Alex and I stayed was none of Gordon Fraymore's damn business.

"Live Oak Farm doesn't have enough room," I answered. "Can I go now?"

He studied me for a long moment. "I suppose," he said deliberately. "Just don't head back for Seattle without letting me know."

"Right."

I got up and walked as far as the doorway, but by then Fraymore had pushed once too often. I couldn't resist a parting shot. "What about Derek Chambers?" I asked.

Fraymore had picked up a nail clipper and was digging something out from under his fingernails. "What about him?"

"When are you going to tell him what really happened?"

Fraymore looked up and glowered at me. "About the knife, you mean? When I get damned good and ready. With smart-assed kids like that, it doesn't hurt to let 'em squirm awhile. That's what we do in small towns, Mr. Beaumont. We scare the shit out of kids in order to get them to straighten up and fly right."

The Constitution notwithstanding.

I said, "That kid deserves better than sitting out there thinking he's killed a man. So do his parents."

"What makes you think he didn't kill him?" Fraymore countered. "Maybe the knife wound wouldn't have been fatal if he hadn't been hit by the kid's car first."

"You'd better check the investigating officer's paper, Detective Fraymore. Derek Chambers' car may have hit Martin Shore first, but it was landing on the hood of the Cutlass that rammed the knife through his heart. Derek was in the Duster."

For a long, tense moment, Detective Fraymore and I stared at each other, then he shuffled through the stack of papers piled on the conference room table in front of him. Pointing with one thick finger, he scanned down one of the sheets. Eventually, his finger stopped moving, and his ears reddened. By the time he raised his eyes from the paper, his face was glowing deep purple.

I knew just from looking at him that both Fraymore and I would have been better off if he had uncovered the error himself.

"You can go now," he said coldly.

And I did. As the door to the conference room closed behind me, I realized I was in almost as much trouble with Detective Gordon Fraymore as Monica Davenport was with Alexis Downey.

When she saw me, Alex hurried to my side and gave me a quick, anxious hug. She carried my bloodstained jacket. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Pretty much. Let's get out of here."

Alex had found me at the scene of the accident, and she had driven me to the hospital in the Porsche. Now, though, as we left the hospital, she handed me the keys. I gave them right back.

"You drive," I told her. "I'm worn out."

The Oak Hill Bed-and-Breakfast was a mile or so south of the theaters on Siskiyou Boulevard. Without knowing it, I had driven past it several times earlier in the afternoon while searching Ashland for Live Oak Lane. The big old two-story house was quiet and dark when we arrived, but Alexis had a key. She let us in through the front door, then led the way through the living room and up a creaking set of stairs.

"This is it," she whispered, opening a door at the top of the stairs. "It's a blue room, so they call it Iris."

While I was at the hospital having my wrist sewn up, Alex had moved our luggage in from the car and had carried it upstairs. All we had to do was undress and fall into bed. My wrist hurt like hell. To keep it from throbbing, I lay with it propped up on an extra pillow next to my head. Alex snuggled up close to my left side and put her head on my chest.

"You should have seen that boy's parents when they showed up at the hospital. The mother was crying. The father didn't say much, but I could tell he was frantic. I felt terrible for all three of them."

"Great minds think alike," I told her.

Alex continued, "It made me glad I don't have kids. I kept trying to put myself in their place. How do parents cope with something like that? The man is dead. Nothing's going to fix that. I mean, Mom and Dad can't kiss it and make it better."

She paused. For several minutes, we lay in silence while an occasional car drove past on the street outside. There are lots of things in life parents can't fix. I didn't speak because I couldn't, not with the huge lump back in my throat.

"You're so quiet. Are you asleep?" Alex asked.

"No."

She turned toward me, snuggling her head under my chin. "What about you, Beau? What would you do if something like that happened to Kelly or Scott? How would you handle it?"

Alex was only making conversation, but this was the worst-possible time for her to ask that particular question.

"Kelly's pregnant," I answered. That response was both unforgivably abrupt and totally indirect, but it covered the bases. Alex propped herself up on my chest and stared thoughtfully into my face, her concerned frown visible in the pale moonlight.

"Oh," she said. "So that's it. I'm so sorry."

"Me, too," I mumbled. "Kelly doesn't seem to be, though. She's happy as a clam, and so's that damn fiance of hers. The wedding's set for Monday afternoon at two-thirty. Since I'm invited, I suppose you are, too, if you want to go, that is."

I made no effort to disguise the hard edge of bitterness in my voice. Why should I? My eighteen-year-old daughter was pregnant and throwing her life away for some jerk of a two-bit actor.

Wordlessly, Alex lay back down and once more snuggled her head under my chin. The soft heat of her breath warmed my skin. My nostrils inhaled the clean, fresh scent of her hair. As gentle fingers began stroking my breastbone, some of the aching tension drained out of my body.

"What about your ex-wife?" Alex asked softly much later when I was almost asleep. "Is she coming?"

"I don't know for sure, but I doubt it. Karen doesn't know about this, and I don't think it's my place to tell her."

"Oh," Alex said, and that was all.

I had meant to ask Alexis Downey about the denouement of the donor party and exactly how things were going in the theater-development wars. I meant to ask her if she had been able to keep Monica Davenport's grubby little paws out of Guy Lewis' wallet, but before I had a chance, the comforting touch of her caressing fingers lulled me to sleep.

It wasn't at all how I had imagined spending the first night of our romantic weekend away from the man-hating Hector and Alex's damnable futon, but in lots of ways it was much nicer.

And it was probably far better than I deserved.

When I woke up, brilliant rays of warm morning sunlight streamed in through the window. Alex-wide awake, showered, and wearing a terry-cloth robe-was curled up in a rocking chair by the window. She sat with a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose and with a thick, leather-bound volume tucked under her face.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"Shakespeare," she replied. "The complete works. We're scheduled to see Shrew tonight. The dialogue's great. I wanted to review it for myself. By the way," she added, "breakfast is in fifteen minutes. You'd better get a move on."

Sniffing the air, I savored the mouth-watering aromas that drifted upstairs from the kitchen. "I think that's what woke me up," I said, crawling out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

"Hope you don't mind baths," Alex cautioned. "Showers are out. Oak Hill was the only place in town with a last-minute cancellation, and this was the last available room. Consider yourself lucky."

As soon as I walked into the bathroom, I understood what Alex meant. Space for this recently added bathroom had been carved from an attic area directly under the slope of the eaves. The tub-enclosure alcove wasn't tall enough to accommodate a shower stall. In fact, I couldn't even stand up in it without bumping my head on the ceiling. With my arm bandaged, though, showers would have been out of the question anyway.

I missed my morning shower, but breakfast more than made up for it. Alex and I arrived in the huge dining-room and took the last two places at the far end of a spacious dining-room table that comfortably seated twelve. By the time we appeared, the room was abuzz with lively chatter. Talk ceased long enough for a round of introductions. Guests came from as far south as San Diego and from as far north as Alex's digs on Queen Ann Hill.

The Oak Hill's owner-a retired schoolteacher named Florence who functioned as hostess, chief cook, waitress, busser, manager, and concierge-passed platters heaped high with French toast, delectable sausages, and sliced fresh fruit. She plied us with pitchers of juice and hot coffee and kept conversation flowing. Table talk focused mostly on who had seen which plays yesterday, what they thought of same, and who would see what today.

Toward the end of the meal, someone asked about the bandage on my arm. With little encouragement, Alex told a rapt audience about the previous night's activities. There's nothing like murder and mayhem to liven up a waning meal-time discussion.

Once the topic of murder came up, I figured I was in for it. Being identified as a police officer-especially a homicide detective-in a group of civilians is no favor. The cop immediately becomes the focus of all kinds of public pet peeves concerning the judicial system-from police brutality to overly enthusiastic traffic enforcement. With a brand-new local murder under discussion, I figured I was in for a real grilling.

And that would have happened most places. Ashland was different. To my surprise, that highly literate group of breakfast conversationalists quickly veered away from the specifics of Martin Shore's murder into a hotly contested philosophical discussion on the ethics of the death penalty. It's no news that I was the only person unconditionally in favor of capital punishment, but everyone else turned out to be just as opinionated as I was.

All in all, it was a delicious, interesting, and altogether enjoyable meal. It put me totally at ease, lulled me into a false sense of security and lighthearted fun. As a consequence, when Alexis and I walked back up to our room afterward, I was shocked when we ran into Kelly coming down the stairway. She was headed for the laundry on the other side of the kitchen, her arms laden with a huge bundle of dirty sheets and wet towels.

"Kelly!" I exclaimed in dismay. "What are you doing here?"

She glanced first at Alexis and then at me. "Hello, Dad," she said. "I work here mornings. I thought you knew that. I saw your car outside and thought that's why you stayed here."

"I had no idea!"

Alexis stepped forward with a ready smile. "Hi, Kelly. I'm Alexis Downey. Alex for short. I'm so glad to meet you."

Now it was Kelly and Alexis who stood looking at each other and sizing one another up in the same way Jeremy Todd Cartwright and I had surveyed one another the evening before. At last Kelly smiled. "I'm happy to meet you, too, Alex," she said. The dignity of her response belied both her age and the dirty linen.

"Right now I have to start the wash, or it'll never get dry. We'll talk later-at lunch. I'm off around eleven-thirty." With that, she continued down the staircase and disappeared.

I watched her go with a very real sense of wonder. I was so amazed that for the time being I forgot to be embarrassed about her seeing Alex and me together. "She's all grown up, Alexis. How did that happen? Where have I been?"

Alex grinned. "Daddies are always the last to know."

We proceeded up the stairs and into our room, where the bed had been neatly made. Two sets of clean towels and washcloths hung on the bars in the bathroom. I was astonished to think that Kelly-my very own messy Kelly-had carefully placed them there and that she had actually made a bed. With her own hands. That was so out of character, I would have been less surprised if someone had told me she was an alien being from another planet.

"If you had known her when she was little…"

Alex turned to me. "How long have you been divorced?"

"Six years, going on seven. Why?"

"When you don't see someone on a daily basis, especially little kids, they tend to stay frozen in your mind at the age they were when you knew them best. For years my grandmother sent me three pairs of panties on my birthday. Every year I had to exchange them because every year they were too small.

"Kelly's all grown up now, Beau. She's not eleven or twelve anymore. It looks to me as though she's behaving in a very responsible fashion."

I thought about that. "In other words, butt out and mind my own business?"

Alex shrugged. "Maybe that's a little stronger than I would have said it myself, but yes, that's pretty much what I mean."

Alex left me standing in the middle of the room, walked over to the door, and clicked home the security lock. When she came back, she kissed me full on the lips.

"Hey, big guy," she murmured. "How about a quick roll in the hay? This is supposed to be our romantic getaway, remember? So far you haven't laid a glove on me."

God knows I wanted her, but my ears reddened at the very suggestion. "With Kelly right downstairs?" I croaked.

Alex laughed. "Why not? She's doing laundry, remember? She won't even notice."

"But what if the bed squeaks? What if the floor does?"

"What if?"

Taking me by the hand, Alex led me over to the bed. I sat down on it tentatively and bounced once or twice, testing the springs. I couldn't hear any telltale squeaks, but without being downstairs to listen, how could I be sure? Meantime, Alex slipped out of her shorts and panties and peeled her T-shirt off over her head. Seconds after the T-shirt hit the carpeted floor, so did her lacy white bra.

Alex walked over to me and pulled me against her bare skin with fierce, hungry urgency. Grasping my head, she buried my face in the soft, fragrant swell of her breasts.

"Please," she whispered. "Kelly will never know. Even if she did, she won't mind. I think she knows where babies come from."

"But…"

"Kelly isn't a virgin anymore. She doesn't expect you to be one, either."

Put that way, with Alex's suddenly taut nipples grazing against my skin and lips, I could hardly turn her down. No right-thinking male would have, not unless he was totally crazy-and, most assuredly, I am not crazy.

Eventually, with some careful urging on her part, I did manage to rise to the occasion. But given the choice between making love while my daughter was downstairs washing clothes or doing it with Alex's crazy cat lying there eyeing us malevolently from the opposite pillow, I confess I'd choose Hector every single time.