by Lee Magner
Sure enough. The banged-up four-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicle owned by the Decatur Country Sentinel rolled up after Franklin’s car, and within moments a camera was flashing pictures as fast as the photographer could aim and shoot.
Case joined them, but stood outside the truck.
“Are you all right?” he asked Clare.
“Yes. Everyone’s fine here, but your father’s exhausted. I wish we could get him into bed.”
Case nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m going to go see what the fire chief has to say, and maybe we can do something about that. It looks to me like they’re containing the fire, but it’ll be a while yet before anyone can be sure.”
“Do you have any idea who was in the house?” Clare asked worriedly.
Grimly, Case shook his head. “I lost him in the dark. By the time the police got there with the flashlights, there was no one to find. He’d dropped the slicker, and, apparently, was wearing dark clothing. One of the cops said they’ve got a tracking dog they use sometimes and if they can wake up the cop that owns him and get him over here, they’ll try to hunt him down.”
“You don’t sound optimistic that it’ll work,” Clare noted gently.
“No. Unless he’s foolish enough to hang around, he’s long gone by now. They may find some useful evidence at daybreak… but that would be a long shot, too, in my opinion.”
He saw the fire chief talking with the police.
“I’ll go see what I can find out,” he said. “Sit tight.”
She nodded and watched him go.
Luther was still keeping a sharp lookout on all sides. And his shotgun was lying at their feet. Just in case.
They didn’t find the disappearing fireman.
But they did manage to extinguish the blaze.
By Tuesday morning, all that remained of the fire was the partially burned wood and haphazard trail of ashes that it left in its path.
Case stood in front of what was left of the barn while the insurance agent and Luther went over the property damage. Case had already told Luther that he would personally cover any costs that the insurance didn’t.
That wasn’t the worry paramount on his mind, however.
His father’s rapidly deteriorating health was.
They’d retired to the farmhouse when it became clear that the danger of being engulfed in flames or choked in smoke was behind them. Seamus had been very weak as they’d helped him back into his bed.
And he’d had little appetite at breakfast this morning.
His skin was a yellowish tan.
When he’d looked at Case, they’d both known that the end was growing near.
The alarm installers from the security firm that Logan had hired rolled up in their van as Case struggled with the knowledge of his father’s impending death. He knew the technicians from previous business that the company had performed for him and for Logan before. At least they weren’t murderers in disguise, he thought cynically.
“This way,” he said, taking them up to the house.
They looked at the half-burned barn in surprise.
“Looks like we’re a day late,” one of them deadpanned.
“Yeah. But we still need your services,” Case said evenly. Even for just a little while. After Seamus was gone… well, he doubted that the murderer would try to attack anyone else. It was Seamus’s mind that posed the threat to him, presumably.
The alarm system, closed-circuit cameras and intercoms were installed by the end of the day. Luther had called a contractor to arrange to clear away the damaged portion of the barn and rebuild it. And Case flew Seamus to Cincinnati to see a doctor.
Clare had been trying to concentrate on her work for two days. Tuesday had been difficult because of the steady stream of people discussing the fire at Luther’s. People drifting in for appointments with the police chief or the mayor, or the accounting department would gossip about what they’d heard— some of which had become outrageously ridiculous.
“I heard that the old drunk got hold of a bottle and fell over in the barn while he was smoking a cigarette…”
“No, no. That son of his was trying to electrify the barn and the house to keep hoodlums from bothering ‘em, and Luther’s old electrical system got overloaded…”
“But I heard that Luther took a shot at some trespasser and the bullet struck some metal nails or such and the spark set off the old wood around the corral…”
The grapevine had been overloaded with messages, Clare thought. If the situation weren’t so genuinely dangerous, she would have found the stories comical and spent the day laughing helplessly.
But the situation was dangerous.
And grave.
Case had telephoned her late Tuesday morning and told her he was taking Seamus to see a doctor, and that he probably wouldn’t be able to fly back until Thursday afternoon at the earliest.
“Fly carefully,” she murmured, trying to inject a little humor into her voice. She didn’t want to burden him with her fears.
“Yeah. Did your mother agree to let them install that electronic burglar alarm system?”
“Yes. She said to thank you for being concerned for our welfare.”
“Tell her… tell her it’s an honor to look out for her… and for her daughter,” he said softly.
Clare fought back tears. The tenderness in his voice was almost too much to bear for some reason.
“I hope this is all behind us soon,” she whispered. “I want—”
She stopped, because Peter Lightman and his father were walking past her office on their way to talk to the mayor.
“I want, too,” Case said quietly. He laughed softly, as if he too felt the need to boost their spirits a little. “And I certainly hope we’re both wanting the same thing.”
Clare laughed briefly and curled the telephone cord around her index finger.
“Would you like to make a date so we can compare notes and find out?” she suggested daintily.
“Yes. Keep your calendar open. As soon as I can get back, I’d like all your free time.”
“All of it?” she asked huskily.
“Every last second of it.”
She kissed the air by the mouthpiece of the phone. “That’s for luck,” she whispered.
“Bye, Clare. I’ve got to go. Watch your back, okay?”
“Umm-hmm. You, too.”
Wednesday morning, Thalia Odensbrucker, the librarian, called her.
“Say, Clare, are you still interested in newspaper clips related to Crawfordsville residents from about fifteen and a half years ago?”
“Sure!”
“Well, a lady who used to live in Crawfordsville just sent the county library all her family archives. She was a genealogy enthusiast and most of it was family history. But she also had reams of old documents and papers that she’d collected over the years to supply bits of information about her relatives and the county in general.”
“She sounds like a veritable pack rat,” Clare said.
“My kind of gal,” Thalia agreed with a laugh. “She saved everything from recipes to class photographs to old church bulletins. There are even some old copies of the Sentinel and that little paper that ran on a shoestring for a few years and then went bankrupt. I was looking through them over the weekend in order to help with the cataloging we’re going to have to do, and it dawned on me that you might find some wheat among all this chaff.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“It’s just sitting in the cataloging room. Come over when you have a chance and I’ll show you where.”
“Would this afternoon be good?”
Thalia laughed in surprise. “Yes,” she conceded. “I had no idea you were so fascinated with local trivia, though.”
“It’s a newly acquired taste,” Clare assured her.
By closing time Wednesday, Clare had indeed stumbled upon a small grain of wheat. Holding in her hands the pages of the defunct Crawfordsville Tattler, she re
ad a small article on people’s travels. And in that article, there was mention of a trip. Lexie Clayton had been seen leaving for a brief, weekend trip to Dayton. The article said she was visiting a private school with an eye to enrolling.
Clare knew that Lexie had never talked about going away to school. Although there was something vaguely familiar about Dayton… Clare frowned and tried to recall why she should think that.
Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.
The library was closing and Clare had to leave. She made a photocopy of the item.
“Thanks, Thalia. Um, has anybody else been looking for this kind of local information, as far as you know?” she asked.
“No. I’m not aware of it.”
“Would you try to keep that material especially safe? Out of circulation for a while?”
Thalia raised her eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain why?” she asked dryly.
“I’d rather not—not right now, anyway. It may be nothing…but…” Clare gave Thalia a pleading look. “Please? Just for a few weeks?”
“All right. I can’t imagine that we’ll have a line of people demanding this lady’s archives anytime soon,” Thalia said in amusement. ‘I’ll drag out the cataloging. How’s that? That’ll keep it in limbo until…um, including my vacation week…oh, until mid-July. Would that do?” “
Clare beamed.
“Perfect!”
Logan called Case on Thursday morning, just before Case left Cincinnati to fly Seamus back to Crawfordsville.
“How’s he doing?” Logan asked.
“Better. They changed some of the medicines he’s taking, and made him rest for twenty-four hours. He’s one tough Irishman,” Case said wryly.
“The doctor has scheduled an evaluation with Seamus for next Monday. Can you get him to Cleveland? I’m sorry, Case, it’s the closest I can get. Using these experimental memory-enhancing drugs is a touchy business, and the physician is willing to squeeze us in only because he owes me a very big favor. He’s too booked up with other patients to fly down to see Seamus in Crawfordsville.”
“I’m not surprised,” Case said grimly. “Sure. I can get him to Cleveland on Monday. But I’m not sure he’ll still be alive by then.”
Logan sighed.
“I wish there was more I could do, Case,” he said sadly.
“I know. Hell, you’ve done a lot. We’ll just have to play the cards that lady luck deals us.”
“Oh, on that other matter, about the court transcript… The legal department got a copy of all the records. They actually sent someone over to photograph some things, to make sure we got a complete record. The autopsy has a couple of redacted sentences.”
“Redacted? They inked it out so it couldn’t become part of the public record.”
“Exactly.”
“Any idea what was eliminated?”
“No. But there was also a statement from a Dr. Graybond, and one paragraph was redacted. So maybe he was talking about the same thing. If he was, and you gave him a call, maybe you could convince him to share it with you.”
“That would be difficult,” Case said, frowning. “Graybond died in an auto accident about ten years ago or so. He was the only physician around there, so Luther mentioned it in a letter.” Case pressed his lips together in frustration. “Damn. Well, maybe his widow is still somewhere around and maybe she still has some old files, or knows where they went.”
“Sounds unlikely,” Logan observed.
“Very.”
“Keep in touch. And…hang tough, Case. Let me know what else I can do.”
“Keep my job waiting for me,” Case said with a laugh. “When this is all over, I’m going to need it.”
“Oh? Planning on getting married or something?” Logan asked teasingly.
Case didn’t answer right away.
“Case? You aren’t getting married?” Logan asked, shocked. He’d been joking the first time he’d asked.
“You’ll be the second to know if I am,” Case assured him wryly. “Gotta go, Logan… thanks.”
“I need a haircut.”
Case and Luther both turned to stare at Seamus in surprise.
“What brought this on?” Case asked.
Seamus rubbed his thinning hair. “It’s over my ears. And I’m not being buried looking like a shaggy cur. I’ll look me Sunday best, and that means a haircut.”
“Hell, Seamus, the funeral parlor can give you a haircut, if ‘n you’re that vain!” Luther exclaimed with a snort.
Seamus got a stubborn look on his face.
“It’s one of my last requests,” he said, fixing Case and then Luther with his most domineering look. “Ye wouldn’t refuse a dying man his last wish, especially when it’s for such a modest purpose as a last haircut. Would you?”
Case had the feeling there was more to it than that. Seamus wanted to get out of the farmhouse and had complained about it bitterly early this morning. Still, he could use a trim, and it seemed like a small thing to deny Seamus.
“I always kind of liked sittin’ in the barber chair of a Saturday,” Seamus said reminiscently. “That barber—what was his name, Luther?”
“Ivan Mortensen?”
“Yeah. That’s him. He gives a good cut. And who were those others—the Saturday morning guys. You used to be among them, getting your weekly trim and reading the magazines for free and talking about the weather with the other farmers…”
Luther began ticking off the names, with Seamus pressing for a detail about each one, and Luther obliging him.
After about ten minutes of this, Case relented. What harm could there be? He’d be with his father all the time. And if it was so important to the old man, well, hell, let him get his hair cut.
” All right. When do you want to go?”
Seamus smiled like a man who’d just been dealt a fourth ace in a poker hand.
“Well, this afternoon would be okay with me. I hate to wait until Saturday mornin’, ‘cause I may not still be among you by then. So let’s not wait.”
Case nodded and pulled the keys out of his pocket.
Chapter 13
The barbershop looked more or less the same as it had since the day it was opened forty years ago by the father of the current owner. It occupied the corner of Main Street, just a couple blocks away from Courthouse Square. The twirling redand-white barber pole had a small missing section that needed to be replaced “when business picked up,” barber Ivan Mortensen always declared.
Like other members of the local business community, he dreamed of the day when some nice productive commercial establishments moved to little Crawfordsville and brought fresh blood to their slowly dying economy.
Until then, he couldn’t afford to fix the barber’s twirling emblem. Or do more than patch the tears in the seats. Or supply magazines more recent than six months old, donated by the customers: Among them, they had a nice selection, as long as you didn’t mind that you weren’t current in your reading.
Case parked his car close to the door and patiently helped Seamus up .the two stone steps into the unair-conditioned premises.
There were only a few people there.
Before Ivan saw Seamus, he was smiling. As soon as he recognized him, the smile died.
Grimly, Case helped Seamus into one of the empty chairs lined along the wall for the use of customers waiting their turn.
Mortensen looked very uncomfortable.
“Something wrong?” Case asked coldly.
“You know I’d rather not touch that man’s hair,” Ivan said in his customary, straightforward, way.
“But you’re in business. You can’t refuse him. It’s illegal,” Case stated in a hard voice.
“I don’t want to lose my other customers,” Ivan said. He finished using an electric razor on the neck of his customer and dusted the man with powder to brush away the tiny bits of trimmed hair.
“They’re not going to drive to Jefferson for a haircut, or go down to Tillie’s Beauty
Salon,” Case said. He sat down next to Seamus and stretched out his long legs.
“It doesn’t matter, Ivan,” one of the regulars muttered. “Only a few folks’ll kick up a fuss. Just cut his hair and get him going.”
Ivan nodded. He cut the next customer’s hair and then motioned for Seamus to get into the barber’s chair next.
Case watched out the window, keeping an eye on the passersby. And only paying vague attention to the conversation that Seamus struck up with the barber. And then, he began to realize why Seamus had come.
“Why, you do remember a lot from the old days when I used to cut your hair, Seamus,” Ivan exclaimed as he trimmed behind Seamus’s ears with the long, thin barber shears. “I’d even forgotten about that.”
“It’s the memory drug,” Seamus said smugly.
“The what?” Ivan asked.
Several men had come into the shop and were sitting down, waiting for their turn.
“The memory drug,” Seamus explained carefully. “I went to see a doctor, and he gave me a drug to help my memory come back. And it has been a miracle, indeed. I remember things from way back when—things I haven’t thought about in a long time….”
“Is that so? Well, a lot of folks will be wanting to get some of that stuff. I didn’t know they could do that—give you a drug to fix your memory.”
“Oh, yes. It doesn’t always work, but it worked on me. And I’ll be getting another treatment soon. There are some things I need to remember before I pass on, and they’re coming back to me.
Ivan hesitated, holding the shears over the left side of Seamus’s face and the comb partway through a lock of hair.
Reverend Lightman and Franklin Bonney walked into the shop, nodding to Case and sitting by the newspaper.
“I remember something about Lexie—about the night she died… It’s right on the edge of my mind. You know when you’re sure you know something important, but you can’t quite find the spot in your head where it’s kept?”
Ivan nodded. “Oh, sure. I know what that’s like.” He resumed clipping.
“And when I remember, it’s going to be a person I remember. I’m sure of it. And there’s something else—a letter or a diary or something, and where it’s kept. But I just can’t quite grab on to the details of it.” Seamus made a sound of deep frustration.
