JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) Read online

  “I’m not paying for a thing,” I answered, keeping my hackles down and my tone civil. “Kelly and Jeremy haven’t asked me to. They’re doing it all themselves.”

  “Jeremy!” Karen scoffed. “Who is he, anyway? Where does he come from? What does his father do? Are his parents here? And how pregnant is she?”

  In order of importance, I believe Karen saved her top-priority question for last. I realized that once she and Dave saw Kelly, the question of how far along Kelly was would no longer be an issue.

  “More than slightly,” I said.

  “Too late to do something about it?”

  Which told me the real bottom line. Like me, Karen had come hightailing it to Ashland thinking she could somehow convince Kelly to call off the wedding. No doubt she hoped to persuade her daughter to give up the baby or to have an abortion and get her life back on track.

  One of the differences between us was that I’d had the benefit of an extra day, a critical twenty-four hours of adjustment time that had allowed me to make an uneasy peace with the changed order of things. During that time, I had caught a glimpse of Kelly and Jeremy both. I had seen them struggling together to do whatever kinds of work were necessary for them to live independently, away from all parental influence.

  If they were making their own way in the world and not asking for any help, it seemed to me that we, as parents, no longer had a right to tell them what to do. If we ever had that right in the first place.

  “It’s too late to put the toothpaste back in the tube,” I said as kindly as I could. “If we’re smart, we won’t even try.”

  “You’re saying I’m supposed to come all the way up here, go to the damn wedding, and that’s it?”

  “Actually,” I said with one of Ralph Ames’ cheerful, looking-on-the-bright-side smiles, “you get to do one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You get to keep your mouth shut. We all do.”

  Dave Livingston was suddenly overcome by a paroxysm of coughing that may have disguised a chuckle. When I looked over at him to see if he was all right, he winked at me and nodded.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her ever since we left home,” he managed.

  Karen turned her scathing glance on him. “Don’t you start,” she raged.

  Dave stifled. Meantime, Scott realized it was safe and gradually edged his way onto the porch. When he got within reach, I grabbed his shoulders and hugged him, holding him close.

  “Hiya, Pop,” he said with an easy, affable grin. “I hear you’re going to be a grandfather.”

  It wasn’t until Scott said the words aloud that it finally hit home—the grandfather part, I mean. Until then, the idea of grandfatherhood had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle of all the other wedding details and logistics. Like I said before, I’m not the kind of guy who puts a lot of focus on the future.

  Behind me the front door opened, and Alexis Downey stepped out onto the porch, joining the rest of us as easily as if she were already an official part of this somewhat prickly extended family. She offered her hand to Scott and then waited to be introduced.

  At Alex’s and my advanced respective ages, the words “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” somehow stick in my craw. I’m never quite sure how to go about explaining our relationship.

  “Scott,” I said, “this is my friend Alexis Downey, Alex for short. Alex, this is my son, Scott.”

  Alex looked up at him. Scott’s a good-looking kid if I do say so myself. “I’d recognize you anywhere,” she said with a cordial smile. “You look just like your dad.”

  I introduced her to Karen and Dave as well. “I didn’t know you had friends in Ashland,” Karen said stiffly, taking in everything about Alexis Downey in one long, critical inspection.

  “Oh, I’m from Seattle,” Alex returned. “Beau and I drove down to Ashland together on Saturday.”

  With those two sentences, the formal lines of battle were irrevocably drawn, at least on Karen’s side, although I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I thought Karen was done with me. Our divorce had been final for more than six years. She had even been kind to me, years before, when Anne Corley died, so why was she angry or jealous now? None of it made sense. Maybe to someone else, but not to me.

  “Kelly just called,” Alex continued lightly. “She says the people out at the farm have put together an informal buffet brunch in honor of the bride and groom. We’re all invited to stop by before we get dressed to go to the park.”

  “What farm?” Karen asked. “Kelly lives on a farm?”

  “It’s a boardinghouse kind of arrangement,” I explained. “The landlady lets her tenants work off part of the rent so it doesn’t cost so much for them to live there.”

  “I’ll bet it’s filthy,” Karen said. “The landlady’s probably some kind of kook.”

  It was weird to find me, of all people, defending Marjorie Connors, but in hopes of maintaining the peace, I did.

  “No,” I said, “you’re wrong. I’ve met the lady in question. She’s definitely no kook. Far too severe for that. Jeremy told us that Marjorie is altogether opposed to marriage. I’m surprised she’s even allowing a brunch, but let’s not disappoint them. Live Oak Farm isn’t far, but we’ll all need to take cars. Alex and I will lead the way.”

  We sorted up into a three-vehicle minicaravan, with Ralph Ames and Scott in Ralph’s rental Lincoln bringing up the rear. I wondered how many more Lincolns there could possibly be at the Medford airport, but it was a relief for Alex and me to be alone together in the Porsche—and in relative peace and quiet.

  “You’re doing fine,” she assured me. “Just maintain your cool and keep clam.”

  I smiled at that. “Keep clam” is a Seattle insiders’ joke, attributable to Ivar Haglund, one of the Emerald City’s best-loved and now-deceased sea-food restaurateurs.

  “Karen’s really on a tear today,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite this way before.”

  “Probably just the shock of it all,” Alex suggested. “She’s upset and taking it out on who ever’s within range.” Alex stopped for a moment as if considering. “Karen wasn’t always like this?”

  “No,” I answered. “Not at all. One of the things I always liked best about her was her sense of humor, her ability to find the bright side in even the direst circumstances. She had her moments, of course, like we all do, and then she was hell on wheels, but most of the time, she was fine.”

  “People change,” Alex said with a shrug. “That’s life.”

  I was glad Karen was riding with Dave as we threaded our way through the abandoned automobiles and past the remains of the demolished barn. We stopped in the yard near where skeletal but unusable steps led up to the front porch where ancient Sunshine still ruled supreme. The dog hobbled over to the edge of the decking, barking feebly. No one seemed to pay any attention.

  “How do we get past that dog?” Karen demanded.

  “We go around back,” I said, leading the way.

  Halfway around the house, Kelly met us. When she and Karen saw each other, they both stopped and stared. Someone had pinned Kelly’s long blond hair up in an elegant French twist on the back of her head. The hairdo made her look far older, more sophisticated. She wore a one-piece tent-dress-type smock in navy blue with white collar and cuffs. She looked glowingly happy and healthy, the way pregnant women often do. Her smile was as radiant as any self-respecting bride’s.

  “Hello, Mom,” Kelly said softly. “How are you?”

  And then they were in each other’s arms, both of them laughing and crying and talking at once.

  Alex leaned over to me. “See there?” she whispered. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

  Dave had dropped back and was walking with Scott and Ralph. He caught up with us just in time to see Karen and Kelly embrace. His jawline tightened.

  “I forgot something back in the car,” he muttered. Turning around, he hurried back the way
we’d come. Dave’s a fairly tall man, but he walked with his shoulders hunched forward. As he went, he swiped impatiently at his face with his sleeve. He was crying, and I wondered what about.

  God, I’m stupid sometimes!

  Live Oak Farm’s brunch was held in the great outdoors. There were far more people than I had expected, twenty-five or thirty in all, not counting family, including several cast members I recognized from the two shows we had managed to see. Tanya was there, laughing and talking, most of the time with Amber balanced handily on one outthrust hip. I watched her with some interest, wondering not only whether or not Gordon Fray-more had spoken to her, but also if he was right.

  Cop instinct said that Fraymore would have made a move prior to this. For a murder suspect, Tanya Dunseth put on a hell of a show. To a casual observer, she might have seemed at ease, totally in control, but I am first and foremost a detective. My life and the lives of my fellow officers often depend on how good I am at reading people, at deciphering their actions and motives, at predicting behavior. Beneath Tanya’s animated facade of forced gaiety, I sensed a brittleness that hadn’t been there Saturday night in the Members’ Lounge. Fraymore had talked to her, all right, and Tanya Dunseth was scared to death.

  As I stood back and observed her, it was strange to compare her smooth portrayal of the doomed Juliet to this other role, a real-life one that didn’t suit her nearly as well. I don’t suppose that’s surprising. After all, a play’s just that—a play. Romeo and Juliet, the actors, had laughed and joked with one another within minutes of the final curtain. Martin Shore’s murder had occurred in real life; Gordon Fraymore’s hulking presence was no laughing matter.

  Questions of guilt or innocence aside, I had to salute Tanya for her valiant effort at not letting her personal problems interfere with Kelly and Jeremy’s prenuptial celebration. She wasn’t big, and she didn’t appear to be particularly strong, but Tanya Dunseth was one tough cookie.

  Gradually, I was drawn away from observing her and back into the ebb and flow of the party. With all the laughter and easy conversation, it seemed more like a post-wedding reception than a pre-ceremony buffet. Since I wasn’t paying for any of it, I kept quiet, opening my mouth only when spoken to or to chow down on the plentiful food.

  Heavily laden tables decorated with red-checkered tablecloths dotted the entire back deck. Someone had spread garlands of flowers along the tops of the deck’s newly framed handrails. Jeremy had warned us that Marjorie Connors didn’t approve of weddings and wouldn’t be a part of this one, but I wondered about that. Although she wasn’t physically present, I felt Marjorie’s handiwork—and her capable touch—everywhere.

  The food was festive and delicious—cold fried chicken, various kinds of pasta, Jell-O and potato salads, sliced cheeses, baked beans, fresh fruit pies, and hunks of still-warm, freshly made, round-shaped bread that Ralph insisted had to have come from a DAK automatic bread-maker, whatever that was. The bread looked funny, but dabbed with sweet butter, it tasted fine.

  Jeremy showed up wearing a pair of neat new chinos, a clean white shirt, and regular shoes. I was relieved to see he had ditched the Birkenstocks in honor of the occasion. He seemed appropriately nervous as he was introduced to Dave and Karen, then he backed off, leaving them to visit with Kelly. When it came time to eat, he ended up sitting with Alex and me at one of the smaller tables.

  “You’re probably wondering about all this,” he said, glancing around at the milling people while I worried about whether or not he was somehow able to read my mind.

  “Since we only have the one night for our honeymoon, we don’t want to stay at the reception very long, but two-thirty was the earliest we could have the park. After the ceremony, we’ll head over to Salishan, on the coast, just as soon as we can get away. This gives us a chance to visit with some of our friends. And relatives,” he added lamely after a pause.

  Damn. I was starting to like the kid in spite of myself.

  It must have been about one or so when the party started to break up. For one thing, we all had to go somewhere else and change into our wedding clothes. Everyone was busy—clearing away dishes, taking care of food, folding up tables and chairs. And with the adults all occupied, Amber Dunseth managed to slip away.

  Losing a child is every parent’s worst nightmare, but little kids get lost all the time. One second they’re where they’re supposed to be. The next minute they’re gone completely. Tanya was first to raise the alarm. Before long all the party goers were drafted into the search. We spread out in every direction, beating the bushes, looking, and calling.

  Thinking Amber might have toddled off down the road, I went that way, and I was the one who happened to luck out and find her. She had somehow made her way out to that battered hulk of a wrecked Chrysler and had climbed up on the moldering old bench seat. I found her there, sound asleep in the warm sun. Careful not to frighten her, I woke her gently and was carrying her back to the house when Scott came racing down the road toward us, yelling.

  “Dad! Dad, come quick!”

  I had heard that terrible note of panic in Scott’s voice only once before in his whole life. He had been teaching Kelly to ride his bike, even though we’d warned him repeatedly that she was too little and couldn’t handle a two-wheeler. When the bike wrecked, she’d gone ass-over-teakettle on a patch of newly graveled pavement. She was lying in the road scraped and bleeding when Scott came running to me for help.

  “What is it?” I called back, quickening my pace. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Kelly,” he managed. “She fell.”

  I ran then. When we met, I thrust Amber at him like a quarterback handing off a football. “Where?” I demanded.

  “Around the side of the house. There’s a door with steps leading down to the basement. I think it’s real bad,” he added. “Go quick.”

  After that I ran, as fast as I ever remember running in my life. I had to push my way through a milling knot of people clustered around the basement door. A slash of dust-filled sunlight glinted down into semidarkness, lighting a set of heavy plank stairs. At the bottom, another clutch of people crouched on their knees in a tight circle.

  “Is she all right?” I heard myself asking as I scrambled down the stairs. “Is she okay? Somebody tell me what happened.”

  Kelly lay in a rag-doll heap at the bottom of the stairs, her feet still on the next-to-last step. The force of her fall had knocked the pins loose from the French twist, letting her blond hair spill around her head like pooling water on the hard, packed-dirt floor. Dave Livingston knelt beside her while a stricken Jeremy stood over them, staring off into the middle distance with his hands dangling uselessly at his sides.

  “What happened, for God’s sake?” I repeated when nobody answered me. “Did she faint or what?”

  “At least she’s breathing,” Dave said. “Pulse is rapid but weak. Where’s that blanket? Dammit, I told somebody to get me a blanket.”

  “Here!” I looked up in time to see a white-faced Karen thrust a blanket in my direction. I handed it down to Dave, and the two of us struggled clumsily in our hurry to cover Kelly’s appallingly still body.

  “Did someone call nine-one-one?” I asked.

  “Alex said she would,” Dave answered grimly. “I hope to God they hurry.”

  Behind me on the stairs I heard the unmistakable sound of someone starting to retch. Jesus Christ! Was somebody going to throw up? Why the hell didn’t he just go back outside and stay out of the way?

  I looked up then, hoping to dodge out of the path of flying puke, and that’s when I saw the spectral figure that held Jeremy Todd Cartwright’s eyes captive.

  In the far corner of the room, a human form dangled heavily at the end of a rope. I was still squinting through the semidarkness and trying to make out exactly who and what it was when someone switched on the light.

  There, caught in the frail yellow glow of a single bulb, was Daphne Lewis, still wearing the Icelandic sweater she had worn in th
e Members’ Lounge. The farmhouse was old-fashioned post-and-beam construction. In the course of refurbishing the place, new lumber had been sistered onto old to provide bracing for some of the sagging originals holding up the floor joists. The rope, complete with a professional-looking hangman’s noose, had been strung through the intersection of two of those braces.

  As soon as I saw the deadly hangman’s noose, I knew it was something I had seen before—on-stage at the Black Swan Theater. It was one of the props from The Majestic Kid.

  There was no point in running over to Daphne. Obviously dead, she was far beyond help. Kelly was the one who needed all our attention.

  I clung to the stubborn hope that she wouldn’t die. And that the baby wouldn’t either.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Tires crunched in the gravel beside me, jarring me out of my torpor and back into the present, back to an awareness of the world around me. I had no idea how long I’d been walking, nor did I care. Since I’d left Ashland Community Hospital, time had ceased to exist.

  “Get in, Mr. Beaumont. I’ll take you back to the hospital.” Gordon Fraymore reached across the front seat of his Chevrolet Lumina and opened the door.

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “Don’t be stubborn. Do you want to see your granddaughter or not?”

  Granddaughter. Granddaughter? It took a moment to assimilate the word. “Kelly’s baby? A girl. She’s all right then?”

  “The baby’s fine.”

  Without another word, I climbed in the car. “And Kelly?” I asked, buckling my seat belt. “My daughter. How’s she?”

  Fraymore shrugged and shook his head while he wrenched the car into a sharp U-turn and accelerated in the opposite direction.