Sleeping Beauty

by Phillip Margolin

  Birch was certain that he knew what had happened between the class and the attacks in the boathouse. Maxfield’s story raised a red flag for Terri. She’d come to see him to find out if the information about the snack had been released to the public. Once she discovered that it had not, she would have continued investigating Maxfield. Terri was a trained reporter. Talking to Maxfield’s employer would be a natural step. Casey Van Meter’s phone records revealed a call from the dean to Mrs. Spencer after their meeting. That’s when they would have arranged to meet at the boathouse. Maxfield must have discovered why they were meeting and attacked Spencer and Van Meter to keep them from telling the police about Terri Spencer’s suspicions.

  “Larry.” Birch looked up and saw Tony Marx standing in the entrance to his cubicle.

  Marx sat down. “I spent all morning reading Maxfield’s book and making notes on the different murders he describes. Then I called the FBI and read the descriptions of the murders in Maxfield’s novel. Remember how the killing in the novel is different from the killing in the Spencer house but there’s the snack and the duct tape?”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the murders in the book don’t match any of the real murders that the Feds have linked to this guy, but they do contain details from the real murders, like the snack, that were never released to the public.”

  Marx leaned forward. Birch could see the excitement in his eyes. “He can claim that the details are a coincidence, that he made them up. Maybe his lawyer would get away with that if there were only one, but we’ve got three gems, Larry. We’re gonna nail him. Joshua Maxfield is going to go down.”

  Chapter Ten

  Three days after her mother’s murder, sunlight streamed through the window in the Academy dormitory and woke up Ashley. She lay still, listening. Something was different. There was no noise-no early-morning hustle and bustle as there had been during the soccer clinic. Everyone connected with the clinic had gone home. Ashley was still in the dorm because no one could figure out where she should stay. Her house was out, because Joshua Maxfield was still at large. She didn’t want to stay there anyway. It would be a terrible place to be by herself. Too many ghosts, too many empty rooms.

  Detective Birch had asked about relatives who might take her in but Terri and Norman were only children whose parents had passed away. Detective Birch had mentioned a foster home. That had made Ashley hysterical. Then Henry Van Meter stepped in. He said Ashley could stay in the dorm or move to his mansion. Either way, she was to consider the Academy her home until she decided what she wanted to do.

  Ashley sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Straight ahead, taped to the wall, was Sally’s poster of Brandi Chastain ripping off her shirt after scoring the winning goal against China in the World Cup. Sally had left that poster and another of Mia Hamm, Ashley’s favorite soccer player. Sally wanted to stay with Ashley in the dorm, but her parents had taken her away. Sally called every day, but it wasn’t the same as having her friend with her.

  Ashley studied the poster of Brandi Chastain. Chastain looked so powerful, so invincible. Ashley had felt like that on occasion. She remembered last year’s game against Wilson for the Portland Inter-scholastic League championship. It had been tied up with a minute to go when she had raced downfield with the ball, ready to set up the winning goal. Everything had been perfect until she slipped. When she saw her go down, the Wilson goalie stopped dead and straightened up, thinking that the threat was over.

  When Ashley felt her legs go out from under her she’d kicked the ball into the air. Her back had slammed into the ground but she’d tucked her chin. Her eyes had stared forward and she watched the ball fall. To this day Ashley had no idea how she’d had the presence of mind to turn on her hip and kick the awkward shot that had skipped past Wilson ’s stunned goalie. In her room in the Academy dormitory, she re-experienced that feeling of pure joy and she smiled-her first smile since her mother’s death. A second later, she sobered, but something had changed inside her. She was still sad but she knew she didn’t want to die. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, and there were things she had to do, like taking care of her mother’s funeral. The thought made her tear up. She knew she could break down if she didn’t fight, so she took a deep breath and inhaled the rancid odor of days-old sweat.

  Ashley’s nose wrinkled. Her body odor hadn’t bothered her before. She had not had the energy or will to bathe anyway. But this morning the smell repelled her. Ashley stared at herself in the mirror over her dresser. She looked awful. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, she’d lost weight, there were dark shadows under her eyes.

  The shower was in a communal women’s bathroom near the stairs. Ashley remembered the police guard. She put on her sweats, grabbed her toiletries, said hello to the guard, and shuffled down the hall.

  The hot shower helped. It was short because she did not feel right luxuriating in it with her mother and father dead. Guilt would keep her from enjoying a lot of things for a while. But she could not avoid the pleasant feeling of being clean and having smooth, untangled hair.

  Ashley returned to her room. She had just dressed in a fresh Eisenhower High T-shirt and shorts when the police guard knocked on her door. The knock was tentative. Everyone was still walking on eggs around her.

  “Miss Spencer?”

  “Yes?”

  The door opened a crack and the policeman stuck his head in. “There’s a Mr. Philips here to see you. He says he’s your lawyer.”

  Ashley didn’t know anyone named Philips and she was certain that she did not have a lawyer, but she welcomed the novelty of a visitor. The policeman stepped back and a young man slipped past him. He was about Ashley’s height and slender, with pale blue eyes and shaggy light brown hair. The lawyer was wearing a business suit, white shirt, and tie, but Ashley thought he could still pass for someone in high school.

  “Miss Spencer, I’m Jerry Philips. I’m an attorney.”

  Philips held out a business card. Ashley hesitated before crossing the room to take it. The lawyer gestured toward a chair. “May I?”

  “Sure, okay.”

  Ashley sat on the bed and examined the business card. Jerry Philips sat down and balanced his briefcase on his knees.

  “I want you to know how sorry I am about your folks.” The young lawyer looked down and Ashley saw him swallow. “My mother died a few years ago and my father died shortly before your father…passed away. So I have an idea of what you’re going through.”

  Now it was Ashley’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  Philips smiled sadly. “That seems to be the opening line for a lot of people I’ve met since Dad passed away. I’m sure you’ve heard it a lot, too.” He laughed self-consciously. “I just said ‘I’m sorry,’ didn’t I?”

  Ashley was growing impatient. The lawyer seemed like a nice person but she didn’t want to discuss the death of her parents or hear about his tragedy.

  “Mr. Philips, why are you here?”

  “Right. I should come to the point. Did your mother or father ever mention my father, Ken Philips?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He was a lawyer, too. He was partially retired and living in Boulder Creek in central Oregon. Your mother and father were two of the clients he was still handling. Dad wrote their wills.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought you’d like to know how you stand financially.”

  Ashley suddenly realized that she had no idea how she would feed herself or whether she could afford a place to stay once she left the Academy. While her parents were alive, Ashley had the luxury of going to school, playing soccer, and having a good time without worrying how to pay for anything. All that had changed.

  “Another thing.” Philips looked uncomfortable again. “I talked to Detective Birch. He said you could bury your mother now.” Philips didn’t tell Ashley that there had been an autopsy. He didn’t want her thinking about her mother lying on cold steel as a strang
er made incisions in her flesh and unemotionally dictated findings about cause of death. “I can arrange the funeral, if you want me to.”

  “Yes, if you could,” Ashley answered, relieved that someone would take the burden of organizing the funeral from her shoulders.

  “Okay.” Philips took out a yellow pad and made a note. Then he took out some papers.

  “We don’t have to get into details today. We can do that at your convenience. I can tell you that you’re going to be okay financially if you watch yourself. You’ll inherit some money and both of your parents had good life insurance policies. The money will probably last a while if you’re careful. I can suggest a financial adviser when we get together.”

  Ashley wanted to know how much money she would inherit but she could not bring herself to ask. She didn’t want Philips to think that she was greedy, and it felt wrong to think that she had profited from her parents’ deaths.

  “You should also think about selling your house,” Philips continued.

  Ashley took an involuntary breath.

  “It’s hard, I know. I sold my dad’s place and it broke my heart. It’s where I grew up.”

  “I know I’ll have to let it go.”

  “The market is good now. With the life insurance, what you’ll get for the house, and the other money, you should be fine.”

  Ashley wiped a tear from her eye. Philips stood up and handed her a handkerchief. He spotted a glass on her night table.

  “Do you want some water?”

  “I’ll be okay. It’s just so hard to…”

  Ashley bit her lip. Philips looked down. “Anyway,” he continued self-consciously, “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements. Do you want to set a time to meet so we can go over all of the financial stuff?”

  “Anytime is okay,” Ashley said sadly. “I don’t have anything else except the funeral.”

  “Do you have any questions?” Philips asked.

  “Not now. I’ll call you about the meeting. And thank you for coming to see me.”

  “It’s my job,” Philips answered with a kind smile. He stood. “See ya.”

  “See ya,” she answered.

  As soon as Jerry Philips left, Ashley realized that she was famished. She had barely eaten anything in the past few days. Someone had brought meals to her room while the school cafeteria was open for the soccer clinic but she only picked at them, leaving most of the food. Laura Rice’s duties as dorm proctor had ended with the soccer clinic. After she packed, Laura visited Ashley to say good-bye and to deliver a message from Henry Van Meter, who had invited Ashley to take her meals in the Van Meter mansion.

  Ashley pulled on a pair of sneakers and cut across the campus toward the mansion. Her bodyguard followed her at a discreet distance. The morning was spectacular. The sky was bright blue and decorated by fluffy white clouds, the air was fresh with the smell of pine and roses and birdsong filled the air. The very perfection of the morning was pure torture for Ashley. Every bird that sang, every heavenly scent, and every multicolored flower garden made her remember what she had lost.

  Ashley heard the hum of a lawnmower, and the mansion came into view. A crew of gardeners was mowing the grass, edging the bushes, and tending the flower gardens. To get to the kitchen Ashley walked between a pool and a large flagstone patio furnished with lounge chairs and glass-topped tables shaded by sturdy umbrellas. Ashley caught a glimpse of the main dining room through a leaded-glass window. It was paneled in dark woods, and a crystal chandelier hung over a polished oak table that looked as if it could seat her soccer team.

  Ashley knocked on the kitchen door, and a woman dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, khaki slacks, and an apron let her in. The woman was in her forties and her brown hair was starting to streak with gray.

  “I’m Mandy O’Connor. I cook for Mr. Van Meter. You must be Ashley. Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  The kitchen was huge and dominated by a cooking island over which hung racks of copper pots and pans and cooking utensils. To one side was a table already set for two.

  “Sit down while I fix you something. I can whip up oatmeal, a batch of pancakes, or bacon and eggs with some toast. What would you like?”

  Ashley was ravenous and just the mention of the food made her mouth water.

  “Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast sounds great.”

  “Milk, coffee, orange juice, tea?”

  “ Orange juice and milk, please.”

  Ashley sat at the table, where she found a copy of the morning paper. The headline was about a crisis in the Middle East, but there was a story about the manhunt for Joshua Maxfield below the fold. Ashley turned over the paper so she couldn’t see that story and searched for sports. In the back was an article about a summer league soccer playoff. Ashley had been on the winning team last year. She could only read part of it before she had to stop.

  The door connecting the kitchen to the interior of the house opened and Henry Van Meter shuffled in. He was not using his cane, and each step looked tortured. He spotted Ashley and smiled.

  “Miss Spencer, welcome,” he said, his speech slurring slightly. “You are joining me for breakfast?”

  Ashley stood. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Van Meter. Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “You have been in my thoughts constantly for the past few days.”

  It seemed to take an eternity for Henry to reach the table. Ashley pulled out his chair and he sat down slowly, with a great effort.

  “My usual, Mandy,” Van Meter said. Then he looked at the page in the sports section that Ashley had been reading.

  “You would be playing today, no?”

  Ashley was surprised that he knew that. She nodded. He patted the back of her hand. His touch was cold.

  “You will play again. You are young, so this tragedy consumes you, you believe that you will be as sad for the rest of your life as you are now, but time will make your pain fade. Trust me. I have suffered tragedies and outlived the pain. Nietzsche said, that which does not kill us makes us strong. I have lived the truth of that philosophy. The strong survive and you are strong.”

  “How can you know that?” she asked.

  “There is one unalterable fact. Life goes on whether we wish it or not. I was wounded in the war, in my leg. Badly wounded. The doctors amputated it.”

  Ashley’s lips parted, her eyes widened. Henry laughed.

  “You are shocked. It’s the right leg below the knee. They do wonderful things with prosthetics nowadays. But back then…” Henry shook his head.

  “Can you imagine, twenty-two years old and looking at life as a young man with one leg? What girl would have me? I would be a cripple, the subject of pity. But I woke up one morning and accepted the fact that I was a man with one leg. Some people had bad eyesight, others were uncoordinated or stupid-I had one leg. So be it. I never let my grief overwhelm me again. I rejected self-pity. When I returned home I courted and married the most beautiful and talented woman in Portland society, I improved the business that my father started, I traveled to far-off places instead of sitting in the dark, brooding.” Henry tapped his temple. “It is force of will. You must make your will like iron. It is the only way to conquer life, which can be unremittingly cruel at times.”

  Henry’s words stirred Ashley. She remembered how different she’d felt this morning when she made her decision to get out of the bed in which she had been hiding and do something as simple as taking a shower.

  Mrs. O’Connor laid a plate of crisp bacon, steaming eggs, and hot, buttered toast in front of her. The smell banished all thoughts except those connected with food. Henry ate a bowl of oatmeal. Ashley took a drink of orange juice and dug in. Henry watched her eat. He smiled.

  “Have you thought about what you will do with your life?” Henry asked.

  “I was planning on college, if I can afford it,” Ashley answered. She was still uncertain about her financial situation despite Jerry Philips’s assurances.

 
“Ach, college. That is something you will not have to worry about. I have seen your grades, young lady. I know about your athletic scholarship possibilities.”

  Ashley looked surprised.

  “This is my school. My daughter is the dean,” he said, as if Casey were still in her office, hard at work, “but I know everything that goes on here. So you have no worries where college is concerned. I am talking about after college. What will you do with your life?”

  Ashley’s tragedy had made it hard to think beyond the day. The rest of her life seemed as far away as the jungles of Africa.

  “I don’t know. I was interested in medicine, I’d like to travel,” she answered vaguely.

  “Travel! That is important. To see things, to have experiences. My trips gave me some of my best memories.”

  Ashley had visions of Saharan pyramids and snow-covered Himalayan peaks.

  “Where did you go?”

  Henry began his answer but a knock on the kitchen door interrupted him. Detective Birch walked in with a determined look on his face.

  “Mr. Van Meter, Ashley, I have good news. We caught him.”

  “Joshua Maxfield?” Van Meter asked.

  Birch nodded. “They ran a piece on the case on the national news. The Omaha police got a citizen tip and picked him up in a motel. Maxfield has a court appearance in Nebraska, tomorrow. If he waives extradition he’ll be in custody in Oregon by the end of the week.”

  Ashley had been badly frightened while Joshua Maxfield was at large. She felt relieved now, knowing he was in custody. But she didn’t feel joy. Her mother and father were still dead and nothing the state did to Joshua Maxfield would bring them back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Before Barry Weller entered the jail reception area, he went to the men’s room in the Justice Center to calm his nerves. As he washed his hands, Barry studied himself in the mirror. His reddish-brown hair had been cut two days before and was neat and crisp, and his suit hung just right from his lanky frame. Behind his contacts his eyes were a piercing and decisive green. When he left the restroom Barry believed that he was the very picture of a successful and dynamic attorney.