JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) Page 3

  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 desi
res 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 café.

  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?

  CHAPTER

  3

  After that initial meeting, I didn’t hang around Live Oak Farm for very long. I didn’t have a hell of a lot more to say. Not only that, it was close to six when I was supposed to meet Alexis and her friend. Besides, I didn’t feel particularly welcome, especially since nobody bothered to invite me inside where dinner was about to be served to the motley group of boarders. I eventually grasped the none-too-subtle message that, without prior arrangement, food was not available for unexpected, drop-by guests. Not that I was particularly hungry. Finding out that your unmarried daughter is pregnant works as a natural and amazingly effective appetite suppressant.

  I still didn’t understand Marjorie Connors’ place in the scheme of things, but she seemed to call the shots in addition to r
unning a very tight ship as far as meals were concerned. Saying he was glad to meet me but that he had to get ready for the Green Show, Jeremy hurried into the house and left me alone with Kelly.

  “Whatever that is,” I muttered disagreeably behind him.

  “The Green Show? It’s sort of a pre-show entertainment,” Kelly explained, “outside, in the courtyard. Jeremy’s in both Majestic and Shrew, but he’s also a very talented musician.”

  “Really. What does he play?”

  “Lots of things,” she answered proudly. “His specialty is the krummhorn.”

  The what? I had no idea what a krummhorn was, and I regretted asking. I didn’t want to know. Why couldn’t Jeremy be the kind of upright young man who slaved away over an IBMPC?

  Kelly appeared embarrassed that I wasn’t invited to dinner. She attempted to apologize. “If we had known earlier you would be here, Marjorie could have set an extra place.”

  Knowing Marjorie, that struck me as a narrow escape. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m meeting a friend for dinner, then we’re seeing a play, Romeo and Juliet.”

  “You were lucky to get tickets this late,” Kelly said. “How did you manage that?”

  “My friend took care of it,” I said.

  “Who’s your friend? Someone connected with the Festival?”

  Which brought me right back to Alexis Downey and the problem I had been worrying about since before we left Seattle—what exactly should I tell Kelly about Alexis and vice versa? Admittedly, with Kelly standing there unmarried and more than slightly pregnant, the dynamics of the situation were much different from what I had anticipated. Still, I wasn’t wild about telling my daughter that Alexis was this great gal and that we were down here in Ashland shacking up for the weekend at a local bed-and-breakfast.

  Sexual revolution be damned, there are some things fathers don’t say to their unmarried eighteen-year-old daughters, pregnant or not.

  “Alex isn’t directly connected with the Festival,” I replied carefully, “although she knows plenty of people who are. I’ll introduce you tomorrow morning. Can you come to breakfast?”