A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  Hawthorne walked toward Jane and grabbed her wrist. She twisted it in his hand. Then she heard sirens outside the window.

  “It’s the police,” said Jane. “I wonder what Mrs. Hawthorne will tell them.”

  Hawthorne looked at Jane, enraged. He released her wrist, shoved his hair back in place, and went over to his wife. He tore at the wrist of her blouse, pushed the fabric up, and plunged the needle into her forearm as she screamed. A second later, Mrs. Hawthorne slumped to one side.

  He threw down the syringe and ran out into the reception area. Jane followed him.

  Two patrolmen walked in. One of them was speaking into a walkie-talkie. “We’re in the office now,” he said.

  “This woman is assaultive and dangerous,” shrieked Hawthorne. “She attacked my wife and then she went after me. My wife is collapsed in the other room.”

  Jane held up both hands. “I’m not dangerous,” she said. “Honest.” She tried to make her voice sound as rational as possible. “But the doctor here is all bent out of shape. His wife is unconscious because he gave her an injection.”

  “Why are the police here?” demanded Hawthorne of the receptionist.

  “I called them,” she said, wide eyed and backing up behind the counter. “You said Mrs. da Silva was dangerous.”

  “We’ve got a two-twenty situation here,” said the officer into his walkie-talkie. “We’ll let you know as soon as we figure out who’s crazy.”

  “I’ll go in and check it out,” said the other. “We may have to call the medics.”

  “No!” said Hawthorne. “It’s all right. I just gave her five milligrams of lorazetam. She’ll be all right. I’m a doctor.”

  Jane remembered suddenly that gloved hand in the dark at Richard English’s studio. It was feeling for a pulse in a deft professional way. Like a doctor might.

  “That is—she’s been sedated,” Hawthorne continued. “I was trying to subdue Mrs. da Silva here, and there was a struggle. My wife got the injection instead.”

  “Please,” said Jane, “call Detective John Cameron of the Seattle Police Department. These people know something about a homicide he’s investigating.”

  Hawthorne sighed and rolled his eyes. “I’ll put it in layman’s terms,” he said. “This woman is crazy. Just get her out of my office, will you?”

  The second policeman came out. “The woman in there is out cold. In some kind of a coma or something. We’d better call the aid car.” He looked sharply at Hawthorne. “What the hell did you do to her?” He started barking into his walkie-talkie and went back to her side, kneeling down beside her. Everyone else trailed after him.

  “She’ll be all right,” said Hawthorne. “It’ll wear off in an hour or so. I meant to sedate Mrs. da Silva, but she got in the way.”

  “That’s his own wife he’s talking about,” said Jane. “Kind of cold, isn’t it?”

  The two policemen stared at Hawthorne with thinly veiled disgust.

  “This woman is crazy,” Hawthorne repeated. “And dangerous. A danger to herself and others. Mostly others.”

  The two policemen stared at Jane with frank curiosity. Then they looked at each other, and appeared to be making some telepathic decision. “Let’s take the two conscious ones in and sort it out later,” said the first one, shrugging.

  “Right,” said the second, reaching for the handcuffs on his belt.

  • • •

  Later, much later, Jane sat in a Bellevue coffee shop— all orange vinyl—with John Cameron and his partner.

  “Okay,” Cameron said to her. “Let’s hear it one more time.”

  “It was a cult of one. A cult designed for just one person,” said Jane. “Hawthorne wanted a divorce. Probably an expensive one. You can check it out. Doctors are notoriously bad financial managers. He actually told me he was. Said his accountant couldn’t understand it.

  “Maybe he figured that without money, he couldn’t get Robin or whatever her real name is—”

  “Tammy,” said Cameron’s partner, a young blonde man. “Her name is Tammy.”

  “Anyway,” Jane continued, “maybe he figured she wouldn’t marry him if he was in financial trouble. Who knows. He had a patient who was very suggestible. Who was about to come into a lot of money and turn over two hundred fifty grand in cash to the Fellowship of the Flame.

  “What does he do? He gets her into another cult. Something more select. Something where Linda won’t feel left out. And he knows just what will appeal to her. He’s listened to her most intimate thoughts for years. He even knows what she dreams.

  “She dreams a wise robin flies in her window, transforms itself into a woman, and then Tammy calls herself Robin and scrapes an aquaintance with her.

  “He and Tammy put together some nonsense about the Chosen. It’s in that diary. She had abandoned the Fellowship of the Flame and been lured into something more secret. She heads off with Robin for some meeting, but it isn’t the Fellowship of the Flame. It’s this new thing—the Chosen or whatever they call it.

  “They knew all her associations and they knew just which buttons to push. A lonely kid, rejected by her family. All of a sudden she’s part of the cosmic plan.

  “I guess they needed to make it very special, very convincing, so they get a special effects wizard—Richard English. He left behind a painting that came out of her dreams. Who knows what kind of scene they set up, but it was all intended to make Linda feel very special and that she was somehow fated to be with these people and turn over her money to them.

  “And then she drowns. I don’t know how or why, but she used to dream about walking on water and she couldn’t swim. Maybe they talked her into the water. Maybe she was pushed. All I know is Richard English had a workshop at the end of a pier on Lake Union.”

  Cameron shook his head. “What proof have you got?”

  “The picture. There’s a picture they found in Richard English’s studio. It was one of her dream landscapes. It was part of the special effects, I just know it. They used it to con her.

  “And English came into a lot of money around the time Linda drowned. He started up his business with cash. Said he won it at the track.” She leaned forward. “His share for putting together a package to sell her on the new way to truth. That’s how she was. Looking for signs and portents all the time. When you read the diary again it will all make sense.”

  “We can’t possibly prove a thing,” said Cameron.

  “Okay, let’s flash forward,” said Jane. “I go looking for Linda’s money. I find out a Richard English knew her. I make an appointment to see him. I tell him she kept a diary. He wants me to bring it. What’s he going to do after that phone call with me?”

  Cameron shrugged. “Well, if he was in it with the shrink, he calls him. He tells him you’re looking into this and you have Linda’s diary. Maybe there’s something in there that will incriminate them both.”

  “That’s right. I think Richard English might have been ready to get it off his chest,” said Jane. “He told his wife he had some guilty burden. He never came forward, but when confronted he might have buckled.”

  Cameron looked skeptical. “So Hawthorne goes to wait with him. Maybe they’re going to make a deal with you, depending on what the diary says. But Hawthorne kills English instead.”

  Jane nodded. “That’s right. Maybe English is weakening. Then Hawthorne waits for me and searches me and the car for the diary. He doesn’t kill me because he doesn’t know how much I know—or where the diary is.”

  “But he’d already met you.”

  “That’s right, but he didn’t have my address or phone number. He had to waylay me at Richard English’s studio, after he found out Richard English wouldn’t keep the secret any longer.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “I’m just guessing some of this,” she said, “but it’s basically true; I know it’s true.

  “Hawthorne didn’t have my phone number until I called him and left a message. He didn’t call back. Tammy did. Calling
herself Robin again and telling me Linda was suicidal and probably killed herself. Reminding me that the Fellowship of the Flame got her money, the old cover story. Then she acts scared and tries to get me to back off, claiming the Fellowship of the Flame will get me.”

  “But you got a phone call from an individual representing himself as part of the Fellowship of the Flame, too,” said Cameron.

  “I know. That was probably Dwayne Wayne and his boys. They knew I was looking for the Flamemaster. I’d called the One-Ten Institute that morning and told them what I was looking for, and they tried to scare me off for their own reasons. They weren’t covering up a murder, just the murky origins of the One-Ten Institute. That’s what was so confusing. They—well Wayne, actually—had something to hide, too.

  “I know I’m right,” Jane said. “Why else would Hawthorne lie and say Linda didn’t remember her dreams? He was trying to cover his tracks. He’d used those dreams to con her and get her money. It’s true, I know it. It’s the only scenario that fits.”

  Cameron was silent for a while. “Okay, maybe it is. If we’re lucky, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You will? How?”

  “We got a lot of physical evidence from the English murder scene. No fingerprints, but a nice collection of hair and fibers. He struggled with you, remember? We got a lot of stuff off your clothes, and off Richard English, too. If Hawthorne was there, we can probably place him there with physical evidence. But the story is so screwy I don’t know what the prosecutor can do with it. I don’t even know if it’s enough to go in with a search warrant and look for something linking Hawthorne with the scene.”

  “You haven’t talked to the wife yet,” said Jane.

  “A wife doesn’t have to testify against her husband.” said Cameron.

  “This wife might want to,” said Jane. “Especially if it saves her from a murder charge of her own. I think the guy scares her.”

  “We’ll check it out,” said Cameron. “By ourselves. No more messing around, right? I mean it. You could mess up a conviction if you interfere.”

  “I promise,” said Jane. Then she remembered she’d never called Dwayne Wayne back. His twenty-four hours had been up a few hours ago. She supposed she owed him an apology. She no longer believed he’d taken Linda’s money. Hawthorne had worked too hard to get it for himself. Which left Jane back at square one as far as her hopeless case went.

  Chapter 30

  Soon after she arrived home, the phone rang.

  “Hello, Mrs. da Silva,” said a cheery, familiar voice. “It’s Dorothy. From Mr. Wayne’s office?”

  “Hello, Dorothy,” said Jane. “How may I help you today?” she added maliciously.

  “Please stay on the line for Mr. Wayne.”

  Jane’s heart sank just a little. Dwayne Wayne was one of the biggest sleazes she’d ever come up against, but she now believed him to be innocent of the particular act of sleaziness of which she’d accused him.

  No wonder he’d been annoyed. Not only had she falsely accused him and tried to shake him down, she’d cornered him practically in flagrante delicto in a hot tub. It occurred to her again that she really did owe him an apology. She sighed and began to prepare one. “Perhaps I acted hastily,” she began aloud.

  Wayne came on the line. His voice was affable, brisk, and professional. And, of course, gorgeous.

  “Mrs. da Silva,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about what we discussed.”

  “Yes?” she said.

  “You know, the One-Ten Institute prides itself on seeking out symbols of excellent effectiveness. Young people who strive and achieve. The community has been good to us, and we like to turn back some of what we receive. That’s why this young person you told me about, this young pianist, strikes me as a perfect recipient of a new scholarship we’re planning to offer. We pay all tuition and expenses, for whatever the young lady needs. And there’s some cash, too. The package comes to two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Really,” said Jane.

  “Don’t worry about any paperwork or anything. We’ll handle all that. All I need from you is the young lady’s name and a glossy black-and-white of her for the press kit.”

  “Is this all legitimate?” said Jane.

  “Absolutely.” His tone changed a little. “There are some tax and PR advantages, of course. I have to spread it around anyway. I figure this way I can take care of two things at once. This way, I win and you win and the kid wins, and everybody’s happy.” He cleared his throat. “And I trust I can count on your gratitude. It’s a good deal. Grab it and don’t push for the interest or it’s all off.”

  “No one need ever hear about any youthful excesses you might have had,” said Jane. “I mean, nobody’s perfect, and there’s no reason to bring up the past. Ever. I promise.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Wayne. “I trust the young lady understands all that too, and we can count on her to stick to her piano playing and keep her mouth shut?”

  “She doesn’t know anything incriminating about you,” said Jane. “And I’m sure she’ll be very glad to be a recipient of your corporate largesse.”

  “Good. That’s settled. Now there’s another matter I’d like to bring up. That’s you and your plans. You know, I could use someone like you in my organization.”

  “With or without my Samoan friend?” said Jane.

  “This is on the level,” said Wayne. “I’m always on the lookout for people who know how to handle themselves. How to handle people. You’ve got it, Mrs. da Silva. The touch.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane, “but I don’t think it would work out. I appreciate your thinking of me, though.”

  “We’re talking about a lot of money,” he said. “Travel. You’d meet some fascinating people.”

  “I really don’t think so.” She decided not to mention he’d called her a stupid cunt just yesterday.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Call me if you ever change your mind. Meanwhile, let’s consider that other matter taken care of. We’ll make the announcement next week.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane. When she hung up, she smiled and then she started laughing and jumping.

  She called Leonora first. “We got it,” she said. “A full scholarship for you. And there’s plenty of cash, too.”

  Leonora didn’t answer for a long time. Then she started screaming adolescent screams of joy.

  • • •

  A week later, back in her Chanel suit, she summed up. “I trust you will agree, gentlemen,” she said, looking out at six silver heads in a conference room at the offices of Carlson, Throckmorton, Osgood, Stubbins, and Montcrieff, “that I have carried out Uncle Harold’s wishes, and righted not just one, but three wrongs.”

  She sat down and sipped water.

  Mr. Montcrieff frowned. “Three wrongs?”

  “I arranged for Linda Donnelly’s daughter to receive funds enabling her to study piano, for which she shows great promise.”

  Judge Potter frowned. “Yes, but you tell us the party from whom she received the funds never had them in the first place. That is, this individual”—he consulted some notes through his glasses—“Mr. Wayne, never did benefit initially from Linda Donnelly’s gullibility.”

  “That’s true,” said Jane. “But he did feel a moral obligation.” She squirmed a little.

  “Why did he come up with the money?” said Glendinning, the banker, suspiciously.

  “Sounds like you had something on him,” said Commander Kincaid with a chuckle. “Let’s not be so picky, Potter. The bastard would have conned the girl’s mother out of that money if he could have.”

  “Let’s avoid sloppy thinking here,” said Professor Grunewald.

  “Blackmail,” said the bishop, shaking his head. “I don’t know if we can reward blackmail.”

  “It wasn’t exactly blackmail,” said Jane.

  “We’ll have to think about it,” said Judge Potter. “How about those other wrongs. Now, let’s see, the
re’s the initial death of Linda Donnelly. That strikes me as rather vague. Is anyone going to be prosecuted for that? Does anyone know what really happened?”

  “As I explained,” said Jane patiently, “Mrs. Hawthorne has chosen to testify against her husband in the murder of Richard English. She has been frank about the original conspiracy. She says Linda fell into the water at the end of the pier where Richard English kept his studio during a ceremony during which she handed over her inheritance to Mrs. Hawthorne, then Dr. Hawthorne’s mistress.

  “Dr. Hawthorne had been hiding in a back room. His wife says he dissuaded her from trying to save the girl. I think she was pushed, but either way, it’s murder.”

  “How could Linda Donnelly have been so stupid?” mused Glendinning.

  “Tammy—or Robin—says they’d cooked up an elaborate ritual. They’d bring Linda to English’s studio and show her light shows full of her dreams and innermost thoughts. Robin would pretend to trance and tie it all together with promises that Linda would be a princess of the cosmos. It sounds amazing, but people have believed crazier things. And remember, the Hawthornes did know her innermost secrets.

  “The prosecutor, as I understand it, is not going to press charges in that case, but I think we can agree that Linda was the victim of a wrongful death, and she certainly didn’t kill herself.

  “This information relieves her daughter and her widower of that burden. It also exposes a conspiracy.”

  “Well,” said Montcrieff, “what about this conspiracy? Shouldn’t the psychiatrist give Leonora her mother’s money?”

  Jane shrugged. “Everything he owns could well be swallowed up by legal fees. And I doubt he’d want to give her anything. It would look incriminating.

  “Anyway,” she said, “Dr. Hawthorne will stand trial for the murder of Richard English. The police tell me that with his wife’s testimony as well as certain physical evidence, a conviction is likely.”

  The trustees were silent for a moment. “Why is his wife testifying?” said Judge Potter.