The Hanging

Chapter 18

“You look pale, honey,” Ida said. “And what’s that on your chin?”

“Grazed by a bullet,” I said.

“Yeah, sure. Makeup, please.”

A young man came out from among the equipment cases and dabbed pancake on my chin; it burned.

“Give her some color will you? And do something with the hair,” Ida ordered him. To me she said. “You should get some sun.”

Hiram Chin and a third-string reporter named Kelly Lopez were standing with the administration building behind them, mic’d and lit and ready for the camera.

Chin wore the usual well-cut suit and tie, appropriately dark for the occasion. Kelly Lopez wore a tight lime green knit shirt that showed a canyon of cleavage that not so long ago proper ladies wouldn’t have exposed until after dark. Along with overdone hair and too much makeup she presented quite a package, especially for a taping on a college campus where women generally dressed down lest they be mistaken for airheads.

I didn’t remember ever meeting her before, but when young news hens were as tarted up as she was they all looked about the same to me. I tried not to judge her, remembering that I had truncated the distinctive nose I inherited from my dad in order to get a job very similar to hers.

A phalanx of administrators and staff from the public relations office and a few students created a sort of peanut gallery off to one side. Ida held up her hand and ordered them to silence. When the last cough had been stifled, she put her hand down and signaled for the taping to begin.

Hiram read a prepared statement.

“The faculty, staff and students of Anacapa College are profoundly saddened by the untimely passing of our president, Dr. Park Holloway. Dr. Holloway was a man of great vision who, during his five-year tenure here, led our campus through unprecedented infrastructure growth. The building projects he spearheaded will stand as monuments to the man for many years to come.

“All of us here extend heartfelt sympathy and our prayers to Dr. Holloway’s family during their bereavement. The college invites the community to join us on campus at noon tomorrow as we remember our colleague, friend, and father. Thank you very much.”

Then he folded his notes, nodded to Kelly Lopez, who was poised to ask him questions, and began to remove his mic.

“Dr. Chin,” Kelly said, putting a hand on his arm to stay him. “May I ask you, sir-”

“If you’ll please excuse me,” he said. “I’ve been informed that there is a medical emergency involving one of our faculty. I need to tend to it.”

He handed Kelly his clip-on mic and walked away. As he passed me, the faculty member with the erstwhile medical emergency, I longed for a camera to capture the horror that crossed his face.

“Maggie,” was all he said.

“All’s well here, Hiram. You might have a word with Chief Tejeda in the gallery.”

Ida walked up to me as I watched Hiram’s retreating back.

“Bastard,” she said. “Hardly worth the trip out to hear that B.S. He coulda sent a memo.”

“What? You didn’t get one?”

“Must have missed it,” she said. “We’re putting you and Kelly on chairs over here, get the campus behind you. Too bad about the rain, though, I’d like to catch some students in the background.”

I looked around, saw Preston Nguyen and Sly and a couple of the other youths from the gallery lurking off to the side and gave them a quick wave.

“When we finish out here,” Ida told me, “you’re taking Kelly on a walk through the crime scene.”

“Who dresses her, Ida?”

“Cleavage is in with this new batch, Maggie. She may still be a bit undercooked, but don’t let her looks deceive you; she’s no dummy.”

Ida introduced us. Kelly and I walked together to the covered portico that ran along the side of the building, away from the elements but still with a good shot of the campus as a backdrop, where our conversation would be taped.

“What you said to Ida,” Kelly said, gesturing toward my chin. “Was that true? Did someone shoot at you?”

“At me? Hard to say,” I said. “But Kelly, you might not want to get too close.”

The two of us were perched on canvas director’s chairs, mic’d and hit with a last dab of pancake on nose, chin and forehead to keep down shine. The technical director ran light and sound checks and gave instructions to the cameramen. My neighbor, Early Drummond, was behind camera one. I knew I could trust him to make me look as good as the circumstances allowed, but I was more concerned about what I might say. I had no energy and no enthusiasm for what we were doing, so who knew what might come flying out? Kate had been right: it was time to lie down somewhere.

Sitting next to Kelly, wearing my borrowed sweater, a quick application of stage makeup, and with my hair more blown and sprayed than I usually wore it, I felt the way a brown wren might next to a peacock.

Ida called for silence. The red light came on over the lens of Early’s camera. The tape editor called, “We have speed.” Then Ida, who was producer and technical director on this shoot, began to count, “We are taping in five, four, three…”

Kelly leaned close to me, exposing even more of her makeup-enhanced cleavage to me, and began.

“Oh, Maggie, it must have been so horrible for you.”

Kelly’s exposed physical assets were less an issue for me than the breathless, sensationalized tone of her questions. Yes, finding a dead man had been horrible, but I refused to gasp and cry and go all girly, even though that would have made our bosses happy.

“Horrible for Dr. Holloway, certainly,” I said, answering her question, but sounding stiff, cold.

“What did you do, Maggie?”

“I called 911, and the paramedics and police responded quickly.” Very matter-of-fact in tone. “My involvement was, fortunately, very brief.”

“And now you’re making a film about the late Dr. Park Holloway.” She lowered her chin and looked at me the way funeral directors do when they mention the name of the dear departed. “Maggie, you must feel some link to Dr. Holloway, finding him the way you did. Is that what inspired you to…”

Kelly just seemed to freeze mid-sentence, staring at me. Was it the expression on my face that stopped her? I could have been more helpful to her, responded more generously. But I just didn’t have the mojo to do it.

After a moment, Kelly let out a long breath, turned toward Ida and gestured for her to cut.

“Give me a minute, will you, Ida?” she said.

Ida said, “You okay, Kelly?”

“Yeah, sure. Just give us a minute, okay?”

“Take five,” Ida answered. Early asked me where he could find coffee and I pointed him toward the cafeteria. He led two others off with him. Ida called after them, “Bring me one, too, guys. Black, two sugars.”

Looking down, Kelly tugged the top of her shirt up to cover a good part of her chest and relaxed her shoulders. As she turned toward me, she ran her fingers through her hair, freeing it from its lacquer shell.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

“Did you ever see the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” she asked.

“Sure, Bob Hoskins and a bunch of animated characters.” Odd thing to ask in that situation, I thought, but waited for her to work through whatever was going on.

“Remember the character, Jessica Rabbit? She’s drawn like a blonde bombshell. When she vamps by, men’s eyes pop out of their heads and steam comes out of their ears. Well, she has this line where she says, ‘I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.’”

“Good line,” I said.

“Maggie, this is the way they draw me.” There was mist in her eyes. “I always wanted to be like you and Linda Ellerbee and Christine Amanpour. But…”

She dropped her chin, sighed.

“Hey Kelly,” I said. “It’s a tough business, and it’s getting tougher. We all do what we have to do to stay afloat, right?”

She cocked her head to look at me.

“But they can only draw you the way you’ll let them. And it isn’t so much how you look as what you have to say.”

“All right, ladies.” Ida’s voice brought everyone back to their stations. “Enough with the coffee klatch, huh? Let’s get this in the can.”

Kelly took a deep breath, patted her hair, squared her shoulders, folded her hands in her lap, smiled at me and asked, “Ready?”

I smiled back. “When you are.”

The red light came back on atop the lens of camera one; the tape editor said, “We have speed.” And Ida began to count, “We are taping in five, four, three…”

Kelly took a breath, and turned to me.

“Maggie MacGowen, welcome back to the network. Congratulations for signing on for a new project.” She was sitting upright, sounded friendly but forthright. “Being with us again must feel like déjà vu.”

“It does a bit, yes,” I said, thinking, What now? “It’s nice to be back working with old friends.”

“You have reported news events from all over the world, sending your observations over the airwaves from war zones and natural disasters to the viewing public. But last week, you were, yourself, at the center of an important breaking-news story.”

I was thinking, Good for you, girl, trying not to smile because she was about to ask me about finding a dead man. The cupcake was suddenly sounding more like a steak sandwich, so I did my best to help her out. We got the essentials of what happened Friday evening taken care of without gory details. I thought she did a good job of framing the crime within the context of the community where it occurred: the college campus, where murder is rare.

Skillfully, she segued from the crime to a brief conversation about Park Holloway’s background-from Congress to campus-and on to the reason I was back at the network. She was frank about my series cancellation, and from there to my teaching gig, which brought us full circle to the origins of the film topic. She gave me a good opening to promote my film. And then left her audience with a cliff-hanger.

“Is it possible,” she asked, “that the murderer is someone you see on campus every day?”

“Entirely possible,” I said.

“We are all eager to see your film, Maggie.” She leaned slightly toward me. “But you be careful out there.”

She gave her face to camera one, and closed.

We turned to each other and pretended to chat while Ida counted to ten. At ten, Ida said, “And we’re out. Thank you very much, boys and girls.”

Ida came over to us. “Great job, Kelly. Great job. Maggie, thank you very much. Good luck with the project, and try to stay out from underfoot, will you?”

“No promises, Ida,” I said.

As Kelly and I unclipped our microphones and handed them to a crewman, she glanced at me.

“Well done, Kelly,” I said. “Excellent interview structure.”

“It’s easier when you help,” she said, smiling.

“It’s easier when you cover up your chest.”

She chuckled. “Why do the guys get to wear neckties?”

“Because that’s what turns women on,” I said.

Offering her hand, she said, “It will be interesting having you around.”

“Don’t blink,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

Before we taped the crime scene, I gave Early and Ida the sequence of events, and on camera, led Kelly through the scene. Someone from campus public relations trailed along behind Ida, though I wasn’t sure why. Curious? The appointed censor? Good luck if he decided we needed to clear out for some reason, I thought. Ida had signed releases from the college and a house full of corporate lawyers behind her who were always eager for fresh carrion.

The walk-around took only a few minutes. I managed a few quiet, private words with Early and then headed for the parking lot. Guido Patrini, my film partner, was already at the network studio, waiting for me-he had called several times. I told him I would only be able to make a drive-by, but I was on my way.

Guido was waiting for me in Lana’s top floor office. The little lift of his eyebrows asked me how the interview went, my little shrug answered that it went okay. Guido and I had worked together, off and on, since my stint in Kansas City, so there were a lot of words that didn’t need to get spoken between us anymore.

“Ida’s happy,” Lana said, hanging up her desk phone. “She said you put Kelly Lopez through the traces.”

“That one has possibilities,” I said.

“Maggie, someone else has moved into our old fun zone,” Guido said, referring to our former production office. “Lana’s negotiated some new real estate for us.”

“Guido has given me his usual extravagant wish list,” Lana said, coming to sit on the sofa beside him. “I divided what he asked for by ten, and found a good space for you on the fourth floor, near Studio Eight.”

“You’ll move out the mops and brooms first, though, won’t you?” Guido asked.

“Guido, Guido,” she said, patting his chiseled jaw. “If you weren’t so damn good-looking I’d drop-kick you right out that window onto Alameda Avenue.”

He caught her hand. “Just think of me and Maggie like the ex that moved back in after the divorce was final, and we’ll get along perfectly fine.”

“You two can stop now,” I said. “Lana, does this space have keys, or are we out in a hallway?”

She handed me a manila envelope heavy with keys.

I held out a hand to help Guido up off the couch. “You coming?”

“What’s that thing on your chin?” he asked, leaning in for a closer look at my face.

“Someone took a shot at me today with a pellet gun.”

“Who did?” Lana demanded, voice full of some cross between righteous indignation and morbid curiosity.

“Beats me,” I said. “Sure hope the bugger doesn’t finish the job before we get the film finished. I like this project.”

“Oh my God,” she said, emphasizing every syllable, probably composing the press release in her head, “Filmmaker shot at to stop her from…”

As we headed for the door, Lana, still sitting on the couch, called after us. “What, you’re leaving already? No little good-to-be-back-and-thanks-a-ton-Lana speech?”

“Might be too early for that,” I said. “I need roses, a box of candy and a little smooching first.”

“Dinner tonight, then, both of you?” she asked.

“Sorry, I promised to take my mom grocery shopping.”

She looked crestfallen-we had once been pretty good friends-so I said, “How about tomorrow? Fergie will join us.”

Lana said she would make reservations, and Guido and I headed for the elevator.

“What happened?” Guido asked when we were alone.

“I think it was a kid,” I said. “Someone did a kamikaze graffiti run and took a pellet gun in case he was confronted. Honestly, I think I just happened into the situation.”

“You weren’t hurt?”

I flexed my shoulder up, winced, said, “Just a scratch.”

We found our office on the fourth floor. It had been vacated recently by the production staff of a cancelled afternoon talk show, and was still partially furnished. The phone on a desk in the small outer office worked, so I called Fergie, told her where we were and that she could move in at any time; I would leave her set of keys with Security downstairs. She said she would be there in the morning to start getting things set up.

The second call was to Jack Flaherty in the Archives and Research department to tell him that we could be friends again.

“Fergie already told me,” he said. “I found some interesting poop about this Hiram Chin guy. You want me to shoot it to you now?”

I did. And asked him to copy the files to Fergie.

Guido and I explored our new space. There were two desks in the outer office that would do for him and Fergie. He would be spending most of his time in the field, so all he needed was a telephone and a desk for his computer.

The inner office was big enough for a decent-sized desk, a small sofa-a necessity, some storage cupboards and several monitors.

“Hey, we’re coming up in the world,” Guido said. “We got a window this time.”

I went over and checked out the view. We looked across the Midway directly onto the administration offices.

“If I get right up to the glass I can see a little of Mount Wilson,” I said.

“Hey, don’t knock it, it’s a window. When Redd Foxx had a hit series, he had to threaten to go on strike to get a window.”

“Did he get it?”

“Yeah. They came in and cut one in his wall.”

“Then what have I to complain about?” I said.

“We’ll make do,” he said, picking up his ubiquitous backpack. “If you’re not hanging around, I’m going downstairs to commandeer some steel lockers and have a talk with the news director about renting equipment and crews. Let’s get what we need from the affiliate because it’s cheaper than going to the network. And what the hell are you smiling at?”

“We’re back, Guido.”

He grinned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“At the moment, yes.” I did not need to add, but it may only last a moment.

I made some rounds, saying hello to old friends, letting them know that Guido and I would be around again, at least for a little while. When I left the studio, Guido was happily engaged with the technical details necessary for the production of a documentary.

It was still raining when I got back on the freeway. Traffic moved well enough until the 405 interchange, and then nearly halted. I had just squeezed through that log jam when my mobile phone offered the first bar of “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” my ring-tone for Jean-Paul. I put the call on speaker.

“May I take you to dinner tonight?” he asked.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Hancock Park.”

“I can’t think of anything that would be nicer than seeing you tonight,” I said. “But the freeways are a mess and I’m taking my mom out. I’d ask you to join us, but if you got on the road right now it would take you more than two hours to get to my house. I like you too much to put you through that.”

And besides, I did not say, the day had already been too long already, I did not want to spruce up for an evening out.

He asked, then, about Wednesday night. I said that would be just fine. We talked for a while. He’d spent his afternoon with a perfume trade association and now his nose itched. I told him about signing with the network; I did not mention the pellet hole in my shoulder or how it got there. The conversation took the pain out of that usually excruciating freeway slog and my mind off my discomfort.

After he said good night, I hit Lana’s number.

“We’ll have to move dinner to Thursday,” I told her. “And we’ll have to make an early night of it. I have an early class on Friday.”

“What, did you get a better offer?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” I told her about Jean-Paul, and we agreed that it was rotten to stand up a friend because a man called. And we agreed that she would have done the same thing to me.

Guido was somewhat less understanding, but we moved on to a discussion about interns and he became much happier. The interns Guido brought aboard were always bright, beautiful female graduate film students. I told him that I was bringing one of my own, a young man, and he was less than enthusiastic about it. But that’s to be understood because Guido is one of the Sicilian Patrinis for whom-at least for the men of the clan-the appreciation of the female form is the greatest source of both joy and unholy mess-ups. As his Uncle Vinnie would say, “Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it?”

We had permission to film the memorial. Because Uncle Max had finagled exclusive permission-we would be the only media crew allowed inside the gym for the service-Guido had been able to negotiate a sweetheart rate with the network for the use of a film crew. We talked for a few minutes about exactly what we hoped to capture. He and his people would be at the college early to set up and I would connect with them when I arrived before noon with Sly.

When I finally made it to Mom’s apartment, she told me she really didn’t need to go grocery shopping, so we went straight over to the Wood Ranch for dinner. We sat in front of a roaring fire in a softly lit dining room and had a lovely, quiet meal.

“Gracie Nussbaum is flying down for a visit,” she told me. Gracie and her late husband, Ben, had been among my parents’ closest friends for nearly fifty years.

“She must miss you,” I said. “When is she coming?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. She’s flying in to Burbank.”

“At what time?”

“Three.”

My stomach sank. Mom wasn’t driving yet. Holloway’s memorial was at noon in Anacapa, and I needed to be there. With all the to-ing and fro-ing involved, getting to Burbank at three would not be easy, especially if it was still raining. And I could not expect Gracie to rent a car and negotiate the unfamiliar freeways during rush hour, in the rain. I had decided to hire a car service when Mom covered my hand with hers.

“Oh, honey. Don’t worry, Margot, sweetheart, I’m not expecting you to pick up Gracie. I know you and Max are busy tomorrow with that funeral. I made arrangements with your neighbor, Early. He finishes at the studio in time to scoop up Gracie on his way home.”

“That’s great,” I said. My relief must have shown.

“I wonder, though, if Gracie might borrow your extra car.”

My extra car was Mike’s four-wheel-drive F250 pickup. I could not see Gracie driving that big truck. But hell, I could drive it.

“Sure,” I said, wondering about my dinner plans with Jean-Paul. “We’ll need to figure out the logistics of getting the car down to you.”

“Ricardo said that he and Linda would go up to your place sometime tomorrow and drive it down, if that’s okay with you.”

“Perfectly. I’ll leave a set of keys on the nail just inside the feed shed.”

“Thank you, dear. Gracie hasn’t been to the Getty Museum yet. We thought we might go on Friday.”

I had two concerns: her knee holding up during a museum stroll, and accommodations for Gracie. I refrained from bringing up the first, but asked, “I never looked, Mom-does your sofa open into a bed?”

“No. Kate and Roger invited us to stay in the second casita, the one they built for Roger’s grandchildren.”

I leaned back in my cushy seat, warm, sated, a little sleepy, and caught myself grinning.

“I love you, Mom.”

“What brought that on?”

“You are so terrific. You’ve been here barely a month and you’ve already acquired a whole community.”

She laughed. “I have certainly moved in on your community.”

“Would this be a good time to ask if you’ve given any more thought to moving down?”

“I have, actually.” She watched a busboy add a chunk of wood to the fire. “I am enjoying my little apartment. It’s so comfortable and so easy to take care of. If anything needs repairs I make a phone call and it gets fixed right away.”

She sighed. “My doctor told me yesterday that I will be able to drive again in a month, so I’ll be able to manage on my own. But ever since the weekend, I have begun to actually dread going back to that big old house, alone.”

“We did have a nice weekend.”

“It was dinner at Kate and Roger’s Sunday afternoon that has made me think very hard.” She looked across the table at me. “Your dad and I always enjoyed the big family gathering so much. We imagined growing old and having children and grandchildren and their friends in and out of the house constantly until we were carried off in boxes.

“But Margot, after everybody left last Thanksgiving weekend, I stayed in bed for the better part of a week recovering. And before Thanksgiving, when was the last time I had everyone in the house?”

I had to think for a moment. “Dad’s wake?”

“Yes, twice in nearly two years,” she said. “I’m beginning to understand that I’ve hung on to that big old house because I have hung on to that image, that fantasy. But the family I have left, you and Casey and Max, are all down here. So why, I ask myself, am I still up there in that great mausoleum of a house?”

“What about your friends? Gracie and the Jakobsens?”

“I’m thinking I might move into a two-bedroom apartment and they can come and visit.”

“It’s a bold step, Mom. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, but cleaning out the house.” Her shoulders sagged with the weight of the thought. “Dear God. It makes me tired just to think about.”

“You decide what you want to keep, and we’ll leave the rest to the boys.” The boys were Lyle, my former housemate in San Francisco, and his partner, Roy. They were both, as Gracie Nussbaum said, mensches and yentas. We could trust them to always know the right and the efficient way to tackle a problem like Mom’s move.

“Have you talked about it with Gracie?” I asked.

“Yes. And that’s why she’s coming down. She wants to make sure I’m not in the clutches of some sort of cult.”

“You know that by the end of her stay Ricardo and Linda will have her moved down, too.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

I told her I would put some of the wine and pâté that Jean-Paul had brought into the trunk of the car for her and Gracie to take with them. She thought that was a fine idea.

“Hostess gifts,” she said. “And treats for the guests.”

I got home, at last, to find three dejected-looking horses. There was a canvas canopy over the high side of their enclosure and their stalls were covered, so they could get out of the rain if they wanted to. But I found them standing in the open, apparently oblivious to the drizzle. Early had cleaned their stalls that morning, bless him. I checked their water and gave them fresh alfalfa and a few treats, and told them good night.

Showered, dressed in sweats and warm socks, I took a cup of tea into my workroom and booted the computer to see what Jack had sent me about Hiram Chin.

Chin had an impressive record of accomplishments; he had no need to pad his résumé, though I knew that people did it all the time. Born in Washington, D.C., son of a Taiwanese diplomat. Good degrees in art history, finished with a Ph.D., with honors. Multilingual: English, Mandarin, French, Italian, Spanish. Long list of publications and awards. Full professor at a California university and then Dean of the School of Humanities until he suddenly retired. I read through the mass, and found a few nuggets to focus on.

Karen Holloway had mentioned that Chin and her husband had worked together on a committee at the Smithsonian in Washington. From Jack in network research I learned that the committee was an acquisitions advisory panel for the National Gallery, parsing proposed museum purchases and gifts to the collection. That little nugget made me think again about Clarice Snow.

There were newspaper articles and some clips from news broadcasts about the questions raised over Chin’s academic résumé when he applied for elevation to provost. The name of the deposed dictator whose collection he claimed to have helped assemble came up and Chin was criticized for having a relationship with the man-in exile at the time of Chin’s application, in disgrace, facing international charges of brutality-even though the dictator was an ally of the U.S. and a legitimate head of state when that relationship took place. Was campus squeamishness over that relationship the real reason Chin’s résumé had been challenged? How heated had that criticism by his colleagues been? That information might be hard to find out: As Detective Thornbury was learning, a college campus can be a closed society.

I went online to see what I could find about the collection that Chin helped assemble. There was a cached webpage of the dictator and his extravagantly dressed and bejeweled wife “at home” in their presidential palace. The walls were indeed lined with paintings in heavy gilt frames. Priceless masterworks? Not my area of expertise.

When I searched for an inventory of the dictator’s collection, all I found was an abstract of a court case that was filed the same month that Hiram Chin resigned from the university. I called Uncle Max.

“A group of creditors filed a claim against the assets of the dictator when he was in exile after he was deposed,” I told him. “His art collection was listed among the assets the creditors were going after. The court found in favor of the claimants and awarded them the collection and some bank accounts to satisfy the judgment.”

“Lucky them,” Max said. “Was it a valuable collection?”

“That’s the interesting part, Max. The claimants had it appraised and then they went back to court seeking an amended judgment. Hiram Chin was called as a witness. I’ve only found this abstract so far, so I don’t know any more of the details. Can you search the case for me?”

I gave him the case number and the court, and he said he would put a clerk on it.

Next I emailed Jack and Fergie and asked them to see if they could find a catalogue of the collection from the Middle Eastern museum that Chin claimed to have advised. When that régime collapsed, the museum was looted. Who did the looting, I wanted to know. And did any of the art works show up later?

Fergie emailed right back and told me she would do her best.

Jean-Paul’s little off-key bell rang for me. His friend who lived on Broad Beach, Mme Olivier, had several very striking works of art in her mansion. The house down the beach from Hiram Chin’s. I called Jean-Paul.

“Certainly,” he said, after I told him what was on my mind. “I will have a little conversation with Madame Olivier-Lisette-about her association with your Mr. Chin. How do you say it? It’s in my job description to look after the interests of my countrymen who are in this district.”

We talked for a while about what I had discovered.

“A couple of the men I met at Madame Olivier’s reception Saturday said they knew Park Holloway,” I told him. “They were on some sort of trade junket together in China. Holloway helped one of them buy an antique jade brooch as a gift for his wife.”

“Do you suspect it was a fake?”

“No, actually, I don’t. But Holloway passed himself off as a bit of an art expert. I would love to know if he was at all involved with Chin in putting together collections for some nefarious people. Maybe I should say nefarious collections.”

“Perhaps,” Jean-Paul said, “as a member of Congress he was able to pull a few strings for his friend. It is interesting, Maggie, this quagmire you have ventured into. Very interesting, indeed.”

After saying good night to him, I felt all warm and mushy inside. A lovely warm and mushy.

The house phone rang, another “private caller,” the third that day. I didn’t answer, waited to see if there would be a message, but as usual there wasn’t. Prank caller? A phisher? Annoying, whatever they were.

As I was turning out lights downstairs and checking doors and windows, preparing to go to bed early, the motion-sensitive lights in the front yard snapped on. Duke set up a fuss, as he does when the lights come on, running around his enclosure, making a general fuss. I went to the front window expecting to see the usual pack of trashcan-scavenging coyotes skulking up the drive. Or maybe a possum family.

A large dark car pulled up close to the garage and snapped off its lights. I tried to remember if Mike’s Beretta was still in his desk drawer, loaded. I was just heading off to check when I saw Roger and Ricardo, his father, get out of the car.

“Whose car is that?” I asked as they climbed the front steps.

“The department’s,” Roger said, handing me his raincoat as he came inside. “I rarely drive it, but mine is in the shop.”

“What brings you out on this wet night?” I asked, curious. I could not remember Roger ever just dropping by unannounced.

“We have come to steal your car for your mother’s friend,” Ricardo said, planting a cold kiss on my cheek.

“Dad didn’t want Mom driving down the mountain in the rain tomorrow,” Roger said. “So he asked me to bring him up here tonight. I’m sorry it’s so late. I tried to warn you, but the call went straight to message.”

“You didn’t leave a message.”

“Sorry, no.”

“You called from your mobile?”

He nodded, and I asked him to dial my number, just to check the line, I said. He did, and his familiar number appeared on the I.D. screen; the earlier call wasn’t his.

“Sorry to intrude at this hour, dear,” Ricardo said. “When I saw the weather report, I put the prod to my boy and said, ‘Let’s go now.’”

“Probably the smart thing,” I said, imagining Linda, always a nervous driver, following Ricardo down the mountain in a deluge when they came to get my car for Gracie Nussbaum to use during her visit.

After fetching the extra set of car keys, we went down the back stairs and through the garage. I pushed the button to open the big doors, and the overhead lights came on as the doors rolled up.

“Honey, you going to be driving Mike’s truck?” Ricardo asked, eyeing the pickup skeptically.

“Sure. Be good for the truck to get driven,” I said. “It hasn’t gone farther than the feed store for over a year.”

“But it’s a big truck.” He was not persuaded that it was a good idea for me, little me, to drive it.

“Ricardo,” I said, hitting the button on my key fob to pop the trunk of my car, “I’ll be fine. You want to give me a hand?”

I led him to the wine cupboard and asked him to pick up one of the cases of Côtes du Rhône Jean-Paul brought over Saturday and put it in the trunk. I followed him, carrying tins of the pâté that Mom had enjoyed so much.

“What’s all this for?” he asked, studying the label on the pâté.

“Gifts for Mom’s hosts,” I said, handing him my car keys. “She can’t go to your house empty-handed.”

He smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Roger told him to go ahead, he’d be down the mountain right after him, but first he wanted a word with me.

After we waved good-bye to Ricardo, Roger and I stood in the open garage door, leaning against the truck’s tailgate, looking out at the night. There were patches of black sky behind the clouds, a sliver of moon. Rain was predicted to continue until midafternoon Wednesday, but those patches gave me hope of an earlier clearing.

“Are you checking up on me?” I asked.

“I am. How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Roger. Sore. Quite a day.”

“If you don’t want to drive Mike’s truck, you can have my car.”

“I thought it was in the shop.”

“I lied. Your shoulder might get more sore; I thought the truck might be a bit too much, so I brought the company car home so you could have mine if you want it. Let me know and we’ll switch them out.”

Moved by his concern, I thanked him, hugged him.

“Did you have a doctor look at your wound?”

“Not yet. I have an appointment first thing in the morning.”

“Go get some rest,” he said, giving my back a last pat.

I asked him, “Did you find out who followed me yesterday afternoon in Gilstrap?”

“Yeah. I ran the plates and called the sheriff up there to see if he could tell me anything about the owner, young man named Orel Swensen. The sheriff knows him, said Swensen got into some mischief as a teenager but that now he mostly stayed out of trouble; drinks a little beer on Saturday nights. He works on his father’s dairy farm in Gilstrap, a big commercial operation.”

“Never heard of Orel Swensen,” I said.

“Sheriff asked him why he followed you,” Roger said. “He said he wanted to make sure you got out of town.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, looked at me with a sly smile on his face. “Who’d you offend when you were up there, Mags?”

I told him about taping a conversation with Karen Holloway and about being confronted by her younger son, Harlan.

“Maybe he’s a friend of Harlan Holloway.” He smiled down at me, ever the tease. “And maybe he thought you have good legs.”

“That’s probably it,” I said.

“I should go,” he said, taking out his keys.

“Roger?”

He turned toward me.

“You know Joan Givens.”

“Sure.”

“Has she come to you to talk about Park Holloway’s illicit money-raising?”

“No. I only know what my beloved wife has passed along to me. She says Joan wants to go to the D.A. or something. The way I see it, Holloway’s fund-raising may have been unethical, but I don’t know that it was criminal.”

“Joan told me that he deposited checks in an offshore account.”

“That’s interesting,” he said. “Certainly has an odor to it. But it isn’t illegal, per se. IRS might be interested, though.”

“Has anyone mentioned any of that fund-raising activity to Thornbury and Weber?”

He dipped his chin in a little nod. “I told them it looked like Holloway was having some financial issues because he put the squeeze on campus donors, privately. They said looking into the finances of a murder victim is standard procedure.”

“Have they looked into it at all? Spoken with Joan?”

“I know they haven’t spoken with Joan or I would have heard about it. But Frick and Frack don’t share much with me,” he said. “They have this funny idea that I’m hardwired into the information pipeline at the college.”

I had to laugh. “Where did they ever get that idea?”

He grinned. “Beats me.”

“Roger, I’m a little worried about Joan,” I said. “She told me that before Holloway died she gave copies of a file of letters from angry donors to the Board of Trustees because she wanted Holloway’s activity to be exposed. But she also told me she could trust the Board only to do their best to make the problem go away. I thought that Joan could be protecting her donors by not pushing the issue further.”

“Protecting them from what?” he asked, dubious. “Embarrassment, scrutiny?”

“The way Holloway died,” I said, “how about a murder charge?”

He put a gentle hand under my chin and raised it so I was looking at him.

“That guy today really rattled you, didn’t he?”

“Hate to admit it, but yes.”

“What you’re doing, it’s called projection,” he said, smiling, dropping his hand from my face. “Instead of worrying about yourself, you’ve decided to worry about someone going after Joan.”

“It’s called experience, Roger. I read the donor letters. Some of them are pretty irate. If someone on Joan’s list was angry enough to take out Holloway, then Joan could be in some real danger.”

“That’s a stretch, Mags.”

“I gave her Thornbury’s card and told her I thought she should call him. Would you do me a favor and ask Frick and Frack if she did?”

“As soon as I get home I’ll do just that, but only because I have a feeling that if I don’t, you won’t get any sleep tonight.”