“I didn’t know what else to do, so I gave him—”
“You did the right thing. Don’t worry.”
“What will you do now?”
“We’ll probably go back to the ranch.” Claire tried not to sound as low as she felt. “Look. Don’t worry. Nothing is wrong. I have to see Sheriff Dan tomorrow. I’ll stop in after that. Now, are there any other problems?”
Ella assured Claire that everything was going smoothly at Snow’s Inn, so Claire said goodbye.
Once she’d hung up, Claire wished she could just lie down on the bed and close her eyes. Suddenly, she felt so exhausted. And yet she couldn’t bear the thought of sitting still.
“Let’s pack up, then,” she muttered, and marched into the big walk-in closet area to begin collecting her things. “We might as well go on home tonight.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Joe followed after her.
She began grabbing things off hangers. “What?”
He took the blouse she was folding out of her hands and laid it across her open suitcase. Then he clasped her arms and made her look at him. “What’s the matter with you?”
She squirmed a little in his grip, but she wasn’t really fighting him. She wasn’t fighting anything right then.
“Nothing’s the matter,” she answered with a total lack of conviction. “I just...I don’t feel like hanging around here, that’s all.”
He stared at her measuringly. And then he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He asked, “What do you mean, hanging around? We’ve still got some work to do, don’t we?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know, the reason we came here. Sausalito. The Radners. And the lady in Oakland. What else would I mean?”
“But you said Sheriff Dan said—”
“Hell. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. As long as we’re there to check in on time tomorrow, what’s he going to know about what we were doing tonight? Because we’ll be real gentlemen about this. There will be no more complaints. Besides, what’s he going to do if he does find out— arrest you?”
“Very funny.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t mean to be funny. I’m dead serious here.”
“But you promised we wouldn’t talk to anyone else. If we do, we’ll be breaking our word....”
“Okay, fine.” He released her. “Get packed and we’ll head home.”
She didn’t move. “We shouldn’t—”
“You’re right. It’s a bad idea.” He turned and started reaching for his own clothes.
“But...”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“Well, I mean, if we were really polite, and nice about it...”
“Yeah?” His tawny eyes were gleaming.
“I mean, who could it hurt?”
“Exactly.” He gave up any pretense of packing his clothes. “I’ll call the Radners now. And then it’s back across the Golden Gate to Sausalito. And how about if we try the Oakland address tomorrow on the way out of town?”
Claire nodded, then followed him into the main part of the room, where she waited to see what the phone call would yield.
It yielded nothing but an answering machine that explained how the Radners weren’t near the phone right now, but would love to get back to them soon. Joe left a brief message, just his name and the hotel’s phone number, at the beep.
After that, they headed for Sausalito one more time.
They had no luck with the first of the two people, a man named Ed Farnsworth. They tried the second, Alexandra Brock, who lived in a graceful Spanish Revival house, which was perched with attractive precariousness on one of the famous Sausalito hills.
When they rang the bell, a moon-faced woman of perhaps forty-five peeked warily around the mahogany door at them, not unlatching the chain. “Yes?”
“Ms. Brock?” Claire spoke right up.
“Yes. What is it?”
“I’m Claire Snow and—”
“Claire Snow?” Alexandra Brock’s hazel eyes widened. “You’re the one who shot Alan, aren’t you?”
Claire backed up on the narrow step. Already, she was picturing another scene like the one with Henson’s wife.
But she was wrong. Alexandra Brock was fiddling with the chain. She finally succeeded in unlatching it, and pulled the door back. “Come in, come in. I saw your name in the paper... as the suspect in the shooting. I’m just thrilled to get to meet you.”
Joe and Claire barely had time to exchange stupefied glances before Alexandra Brock ushered them into her lovely home.
She took them to her living room, a warm place of hardwood floors and dhurrie rugs, and fat, soft couches with lots of bright pillows strewn around. She clucked over them as she made them comfortable and offered drinks, which Joe and Claire politely declined.
Then Alexandra talked. Nonstop.
“Oh, I was just so thrilled, when I saw it in the paper. I suppose I should feel bad. He is a human being, after all. But, then, he’s not, really, is he? In reality, he is pond scum. He told me he loved me, can you believe it? Loved me. And I don’t know. He was such a sweet man, he seemed like the most harmless man. How could a man like that tell anything but the truth, is what I thought at the time? Oh, I was a fool. A fool. Walking around with stars in my eyes. Forty-nine thousand. That’s what he ended up costing me, can you feature it? I went to my savings and loan and I cashed in my certificates of deposit and I was singing love songs while I did it. I wrote him several large checks with a dreamy smile on my face. Go figure it. How did he do it? I don’t imagine I will ever know. Oh, but after I woke up from my romantic daydream, I had other, darker dreams. I dreamed of doing just what you did, Claire.” Claire started to protest that she hadn’t done the shooting, but said nothing, because she doubted Alexandra would have heard, anyway. Alexandra rhapsodized on. “I dreamed of pointing a gun at him and pulling the trigger. Oh, Lord, I admire you so. I wish it had been me.”
A girlish giggle escaped her. “But I suppose, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Who wants to go to jail for trying to kill a weasel, after all? And I’ll tell you, I mentioned to more than one person that I would love to kill that piece of flotsam. So you can be sure that I was relieved that I had two houseguests last weekend who will testify in court that I was never out of their sight long enough to drive to that little town of yours and do the deed.” Alexandra giggled again. “A murderous woman like me needs an alibi.” She twinkled at Claire. “But I’m sure you understand.”
Claire nodded. “I have to admit I do.”
“Now.” Alexandra took a sip of the glass of wine she’d poured herself when her guests declined. “What can I do for you? Anything, just ask... within reason, of course...”
Claire and Joe asked the usual questions. Did Alexandra know of anyone else who might want to harm Henson? She didn’t. Had he been in touch with her since he left for Pine Bluff? No, she hadn’t seen or heard from him in sue months—and that was just dandy with her. Had he ever mentioned to her any enemies he might have had, or people who might have been out to make trouble for him?
Alexandra giggled some more at that one. “Oh, no. You know how Alan is. Even if a million people hated his guts, he’d never tell a soul. He likes to pretend he’s everybody’s best friend.”
Soon after that, Claire and Joe got up to leave. At the door, Alexandra stuck out her hand. “Claire, thank you once more. Let’s just hope that dirtbag never wakes up.”
Claire realized now was probably the only chance she’d get to disabuse the woman. “Sorry, Alexandra. But the truth is, I didn’t do it.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, well. I suppose your lawyer told you to say that.”
“No, actually, it’s the truth.”
“Yes, of course. You take care now...”
After that they went by Ed Farnsworth’s house one more time, but it was dark and no one answered when they tried the doorbell. Then they drove back to the hotel again, and Joe tried calling both Farnsworth and the
Radners. He listened to more recorded messages, and left brief messages of his own.
He tried the number of the lady in Oakland, Beth Hyland. She answered.
Joe was prepared. He said he was Jerry Tennyson from Syndicated Data Corporation, and he was taking a survey of the working habits of Bay Area women. Did she work outside the home? How many hours a week? Was she... ?
But then Beth Hyland evidently changed her mind about answering any more questions, because Joe gently put the phone back in its cradle.
“What happened?” Claire wanted to know.
“The usual. She got suspicious—or maybe impatient or bored, who knows?—and hung up. Too bad, too, because I was trying to lead it around so we could be sure she’ll be there tomorrow morning when we drop by.” He looked at the bedside clock. “It’s past ten now. If we try to catch her tonight, it’ll be eleven at least. Not a good time of night for two strangers to be knocking on anyone’s door to ask them questions.” He snared Claire’s hand and pulled her so she was standing between his thighs. He looked up at her. “A better move would be to get out of here at the crack of dawn, and see if we can catch her before she has a chance to leave the house for the day.” He ran a hand under the collar of her shirt, a gesture that was both fond and questioning. “What do you say?”
“Sounds good.” She tried to move away.
He held her still. “Hey.”
“Um?”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” She was lying, and they both knew it. She was trying not to give in to the depression that seemed, once again, to be turning the edges of her reality a dull gray. She pasted on a smile. “Just tired, I guess. Let’s get some sleep, okay?”
He looked at her for a moment more, then nodded. “Good idea.”
They slept wrapped up together. But in spite of the comfort Joe’s strong arms gave, Claire did not sleep well.
They rose at six and tried the Farnsworth and Radner numbers once more. No luck.
Joe turned to Claire once he’d hung up from the second call.
“You don’t have to say it,” she told him before he could speak. “I know. We have to give up on them.”
“For now,” he reminded her, trying, she knew, to interject a note of hope into a gloomy situation.
She made herself smile—she was forcing smiles a lot lately—and said she understood.
By six-thirty, they were checked out of the hotel and on their way to try to catch Beth Hyland at home.
They were in luck this time; she was home.
But she wouldn’t come to the door. She spoke to them through a side window, as they stood on the big porch of her California bungalow-style house.
“I have already talked to the police about Alan Henson, and I don’t intend to talk to anyone else. Please get off my property.”
“But Ms. Hyland—” Claire began.
From inside the house, another voice—a man’s voice—cut in. “She said she won’t talk to you. Either get lost, or we’ll call the police.”
“But I—”
“Claire,” Joe said softly. He was shaking his head.
She knew he was right, of course. If the woman wouldn’t even come to the door, they were unlikely to convince her to reveal anything to them, assuming she had anything to reveal in the first place.
But, oh, Lord, this was it. Beth Hyland, hiding in her house, unwilling to so much as answer her door, was Claire’s last hope. After this, she and Joe would get back in her car and keep driving until they reached Pine Bluff and the courthouse, where they had to report to Sheriff Dan at twelve noon—or else.
After this, there was nothing more she could do. She would go before the grand jury the day after tomorrow. In all likelihood, they’d hand down an indictment. She would go to trial for a crime she had not committed—and she might as well not kid herself. The chances were at least even that she would end up in prison.
For something she hadn’t done.
“Please!” She fairly shouted the word. “Please, you have to talk to me!”
“Claire—”
“Get the hell off this property!” the man inside ordered again.
“But I—”
“Call the police, Beth,” the man said. “I’ve had enough of this crap.”
“Claire...” Joe reached for her.
She shook him off and fell against the heavy wooden door of Beth Hyland’s house. “Please. Ms. Hyland! Please talk to me...” She pounded with her fists on the ungiving wood.
“Claire.” Joe tried to take her arm. “Claire. It’s no good. We have to go. Come on, Claire.”
“We’re calling the police, you crazy bitch!” the man inside announced.
Claire kept pounding, feeling the rough wood scrape her knuckles, not caring, begging the woman inside to please open up, while the man in there yelled obscenities and demanded she get the hell off his porch.
“Claire...” Joe tried again.
She blocked him out and went on beating at the door that was so securely locked against her.
And then Joe grabbed her right arm in mid-pound and spun her to face him.
“Let go of me!” she snarled.
He shook her. Hard.
When he stopped, she stared at him, stunned.
Then he said, “It’s no use. We have to go. Do you understand?”
Numbly, she nodded. Then she instructed in an expressionless voice, “Let go of me, please.”
He dropped his hands to his sides. As soon as he released her, she turned and went down the porch steps to the street where her car waited to take her back to Pine Bluff.
When she reached the car, she got in on the driver’s side and stared out the window, waiting for Joe, who’d stayed behind long enough to exchange a few more words with Beth Hyland and the man in the house.
Within minutes, he was beside her, pulling open her door. “I think I should drive,” he said.
She didn’t argue. She got out, handed him the keys and went around to the passenger side. She stared out the window some more as he started the car, pulled away from the curb and drove away.
Chapter Thirteen
“Beth Hyland agreed not to call the police,” Joe volunteered some time later, after all the tricky interchanges were behind them and they were safely on course, headed along Highway 80 toward Sacramento.
“She did?” Claire didn’t glance at him. She kept her gaze out the window on the dry, rolling hills and the faded-denim sky.
“Yeah. I don’t think she really wanted to make trouble.”
“Right. She’s a real sweetheart.”
“I don’t know if I’d call her a sweetheart, ” he said. “But I don’t think she’ll call the police.”
“I guess I should be grateful.” Claire knew she sounded petulant, but she went on, anyway. “Now Sheriff Dan won’t have to arrest me—again.”
Joe sighed. “Damn it, Claire. Let’s get something straight here. If anyone calls in another complaint on you, the sheriff will probably be forced to revoke your bail.”
Claire stared at him. She knew he was right, but she hadn’t really let herself think about that up till now. She reminded him, “You didn’t bother to point that out last night.”
“I know.” He stared grimly at the road.
“Why?”
“Because you looked so damned pitiful when you heard we had to give up and go home. I thought it would be worth it, just to see you perk up a little. But my idea was that we’d just walk away if things got the least bit tense. I was sure Dan would never know we went back out asking questions after I swore we would quit. I didn’t count on you making a scene like that.” He gave her a quick, understanding glance. “Look. I know you’re as desperate as they come about now. And what you did back there, that crazy scene, I do understand the frustration that caused it. I also know I’m not blameless here. I was the one who pushed you to go on, even after I promised Dan we’d leave it alone. And I was also the one who led you to believe there wasn�
�t much Dan would do if someone else complained about you. But the truth is, Dan Brawley has stuck his neck out about as far as he can for you. You’ve got to realize that he could be forced to lock you up for good, if Wayne Leven—who runs things strictly by the book—hears what we’ve been doing. Do you want to go back to jail?”
Claire stared down at her lap, feeling ashamed of herself. “No. And I’m sorry, Joe.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Just think first next time.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then he said, “Listen. I’m sorry. About shaking you like that.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. It got my attention. And right then, there wasn’t much else that would have done that.”
Claire truly wasn’t upset about the shaking he’d given her. It had shocked her at the time—as he’d intended. But it had been a carefully calculated move, and it had worked with a minimum of fuss. He’d done what he had to do, and he’d done it for her own sake.
She couldn’t fault him for it, and she didn’t. Ever since that day last week—Lord, had it only been a week ago when he’d come to warn her about Alan Henson?—he’d done everything he could for her. He’d proved himself the best friend she’d ever be likely to know. And then, when she couldn’t believe all he’d done for her, he’d done more.
He’d known that the trip to San Francisco would be futile, yet he’d undertaken it anyway, because she begged him to. She’d been so idiotically naive. She’d insisted on believing that some new piece of evidence might come to light if she were to wander around the Bay Area, asking the people Alan Henson had duped if they knew anything about his near-demise that they hadn’t bothered to tell the police.
Lord, she’d been a fool. A fool about everything. Thinking for all those years that the world was fair.
And then, actually believing that she could do something to help herself out of the trap that was slowly swallowing her alive.
A fool, yes. A naive, innocent fool. Born innocent—and too dewy-eyed to get wise.
Even now, when she should have learned her lesson about this pointless excursion, she couldn’t stop thinking about the people they’d never reached—the Radners and the man in Sausalito. And then there were all the ones like Beth Hyland, who had yelled at them, and refused to let them get near.
Born Innocent Page 17
