by Kate Wilhelm
Farther up the road, the people who collected VW vans were in the yard today—half a dozen young people playing with a ball. Several looked up and waved. She waved back.
Three more driveways led to small houses in small clearings. They all had people around. She turned onto a Forest Service road and within a hundred feet, still in sight of Spring Bay Road, she stopped. The road was too steep and rocky; it would take a four-wheel-drive to navigate. She backed out and went back the way she had come.
Although she was watching closely as the meadow yielded to forest off Farleigh Road, she was unable to tell where the Canby property ended. Apparently Mrs. Canby did not like fences or keep out signs. Then she spotted the second logging road, which was the southern boundary of the property, and made the turn.
This was impossible, she knew after only two or three hundred feet. The road had not been maintained even minimally, and the winter rains had worked at undoing what the graders had done. The dirt road was deeply rutted in places, overgrown with seedling fir trees, vine maples, brambles. Now, in the middle of June, it was dry, but in April … She ignored the growing disquietude enveloping her and began to back out.
One more, she thought grimly as she drove again, this time to the blacktop road that led to the Canby driveway and beyond. The asphalt stopped fifteen or twenty feet past the Canby driveway, and a dirt road curved out of sight in a steep grade. Barbara stopped her car and brooded. In April the ground would have been saturated, that dirt road would have been like a sliding board. If any vehicle had driven up there, it would have been known immediately by anyone who glanced that way, and as soon as an arson fire was suspected, investigators would have been all over the scene. Maybe they did know, she thought then, and reluctantly got out of the car. She could have driven, but the thought of backing down again was more than she wanted to contemplate; she locked her car and started to walk. The curve followed a rock outcropping; immediately after the curve the road was blocked by fallen rocks. She could walk around them easily enough, but no car could have gone by. She sat on a boulder and stared into the dense woods.
He could have come up here Friday night, she thought, slept in the car, waited for a chance on Saturday to get to the house… After he killed the child and started the fire, he could have gone back to the car. He had plenty of time that morning to smooth out any marks he had left on the dirt road. And he could have waited until everyone was gone, the fire equipment out, the occupants transported somewhere else. He could have waited until dark, and then backed down, turned in the Canby drive, and left. She made a note to herself to check the weather for the days following the murder. Rain could have obliterated any tracks easier than a man could have done.
Or he could have parked down on Farleigh Road and walked in through the woods, easily avoiding the women looking for mushrooms.
Or, she told herself, standing up, he could have parked down in Lewiston and walked here. It wasn’t that far, a couple of miles. But how had he known about gas in the barn? Would that be a given? Farm—mowers, tillers, other equipment— equals gas in the barn?
She returned to her car and went home feeling out of sorts, as if she was wasting time that was irreplaceable and precious.
On her answering machine was a message from Grace Ganby. Barbara listened to it twice. “Ms. Holloway, this is Grace Ganby. It is two-thirty in the afternoon, Saturday. Will you please give me a call? I’ll be in the rest of the afternoon, or tomorrow all day.” She gave her number and hung up.
Barbara called the number, and Mrs. Canby answered the second ring. After Barbara introduced herself, Mrs. Canby said very coolly, “Ms. Holloway, it was brought to my attention earlier today that you are representing yourself as being in my employ. If, indeed, you are doing this, you must stop immediately, or I shall be forced to consult my attorney.”
“Mrs. Canby, wait!” Barbara said. “I haven’t done such a thing. Who told you that?”
There was a slight pause. “It doesn’t matter who it was. I don’t understand this, or why… However, if you are not making such a claim, I apologize for disturbing you.”
“No, please. Mrs. Canby, may I come talk to you? It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry, I’m very busy.”
“Mrs. Canby, I am the defense counsel for Paula Kennerman, and there are influential people here who seem determined to interfere.” She shut her eyes and gripped the receiver harder. “One of them is Richard Dodgson. May I come talk to you?” She did not open her eyes yet, and realized she was holding her breath. She let it out in the pause that followed.
“Yes. Tomorrow? Two in the afternoon? I really am very busy through the week.”
“Tomorrow. Thank you, Mrs. Canby. Where?”
She would not speculate, she told herself as she speculated wildly after hanging up. It must have been Dodgson; his name had opened the door for her. He must have called Grace Canby. Maybe he thought she was footing the bill. What was the connection between them?
Mrs. Canby lived on the top floor of a condominium situated in a parklike setting a short distance west of Salem, sixty-eight miles north of Eugene. There was a security guard at the front desk, a rare sight in Oregon. When Barbara showed her ID, he checked it against a list, then escorted her to the elevator; he let her ride up alone, except for the closed-circuit television camera that moved slightly whenever she did.
The elevator opened onto a small foyer with only one door and another television camera. The door opened as Barbara approached to knock.
“Ms. Holloway, come in. I’m Grace Canby.” She was in her mid-sixties, tall and thin, with ropelike muscles in her arms and a skeletal face that nevertheless was handsome. Her hair was white, drawn back in a severe bun, her eyes deep-set and pale blue. She was wearing gray sweatpants, a matching, short-sleeved sweatshirt, and running shoes.
“I put off my run until three,” Mrs. Canby said as she walked ahead of Barbara into a spacious living room. The room was almost garish, with furniture covered in a material that had giant tropical flowers in brilliant colors. A heap of newspapers was on the sofa, magazines and books on several tables. Two lamps had Tiffany shades, one a bamboo shade. Scatter rugs were red, blue, yellow. “Let’s sit over here by the window, shall we?”
She led the way to two facing chairs with a game table between them. Glancing out the window, Barbara saw that the park became a real woods behind the building.
“They put in a running track through the trees,” Mrs. Canby said, nodding toward the grounds. “Doesn’t it look like something out of the Disney studios?”
It did. When Barbara turned once more to Mrs. Canby, she found the older woman studying her.
“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Canby asked.
“Was it Richard Dodgson who told you I was misrepresenting myself?”
“Yes.” She was sitting perfectly still with an intent expression, as if she was still appraising her guest.
“And you called me right away to get to the bottom of it,” Barbara said. “Will you tell me what he said?”
“In a minute,” Mrs. Canby said, her expression changing subtly. She looked a little more relaxed. “After Rich called, I talked to my own attorney here in Salem. I didn’t mention Rich, but I asked him about you, and his report was completely satisfying, and that’s the reason I called. If Rich was telling a lie about you, I felt you should know about it. If it was the truth, I wanted you to stop.”
“I’m very grateful that you did call,” Barbara said.
“Yes. Well, I have tried very hard to remain neutral as far as Rich is concerned, but it is difficult at times. He demanded that I call you off, or he said he would fence in the meadow and we could slug it out in court for the next ten years.” Her voice had become very dry. “If he fences that meadow, I’ll hire people to tear down the fence, and then we’ll slug it out in court.”
“You’ve made it into a wildlife refuge,” Barbara murmured, visualizing the meadow with its pond and native grasses and f
lowers.
“I didn’t make it, it happened, and I want to keep it that way. I sold that acreage to Rich years ago, with the proviso that he never fence the lower meadow, or build on it. The deer and elk come down from the woods through the orchard and on into the meadow, the way they always have. If Rich ever fences in his piece of land, they will have to change their route, probably go out on the highway. It would be slaughter.”
Her mouth was set in a firm line. She would be a formidable enemy, Barbara thought. “Did he object when you turned the ranch into a refuge for women?”
“Not really. He started to, but I told him if he printed a word about the ranch, I would start an investigation of him, his family, his publishing company, everything. I reminded him that everyone has something in the past better left buried. It would have been trouble for both of us, but he knew I would do what I said and he backed off. Things happened from time to time that made him angry all over again, and he has called me to protest, but he never mentioned the ranch in his paper, to my knowledge, until after that ghastly tragedy.” When Barbara started to speak, Mrs. Canby tapped the table with her finger. “Wait. I have a question for you. Why does he care if you represent that wretched girl?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve never met him, never laid eyes on him or his family, or his paper until now. What kinds of things did he protest about?”
For a second she thought Mrs. Canby had said all she intended to say, but then she spoke again, and this time she filled in the background without any prompting.
“I thought for a time that one of my children might want to live at the ranch; they all grew up in that house, you see. But it didn’t work out that way. I came here to Salem to serve on a committee and it became pointless to try to maintain the house as a residence. For several years it remained empty. Then three years ago I got the idea to use the house again, to let it be used by women who needed isolation, and safety. Refuge. Repairs had to be made, some appliances replaced, things of that sort had to be done first. Six months later we were ready to open.”
“You said Rich Dodgson complained from time to time. Were they serious complaints?”
“Not at all. The first year someone used his driveway to turn around in, and he called me. I told him to stop being a fool and put up a gate, which he did. A few months later he called to inform me that the girls were skinny-dipping in the pond, a wickedness he would not tolerate or have his two grown sons witness.” A rather wicked gleam sparkled in her eyes.
Barbara suppressed a grin; Mrs. Canby laughed. “I used to do that myself when we lived there. I told him the rushes made a perfect screen and anyone who saw the girls had to work at it. He hung up on me.” She tilted her head, thinking. “There was one other time, last winter. This time he said they were trespassing on his side of the meadow and he would not stand for it. It seems,” she said caustically, “that one of the girls got up before dawn to try to get some photographs of the elk as they moved through the orchard. She was in position at first light. The elk,” she added, “relish the apples Mr. Reading leaves on the trees for them. Sometimes they even stand on their hind legs to reach them. What possible harm that girl could have done is a mystery. I asked Emma—Emma Tidball was the housekeeper/manager—to tell them to stay off his property, and that was the end of that. That’s when he posted the entire acreage. Idiot. He was just looking for things to complain about, I’m afraid.” She shook her head. “He’s the kind of man who gives orders and expects them to be obeyed; he seems to feel the stability of the universe is at stake.”
“Mrs. Canby, I’d like to talk to Emma Tidball and some of the women who stayed at the ranch. Do you know how I can get in touch with Emma?”
Mrs. Canby shook her head and pointedly looked at her watch. It was close to three. “Emma retired after the fire. I offered her a job here in Salem, but she has family down in Cottage Grove and that’s where she went. As for the girls, what records we had were kept in the house and were destroyed in the fire. Tell me, Ms. Holloway, how can any of this be connected with that poor Kennerman girl?”
“I don’t know,” Barbara said. “The reports said another woman was there to lead the hunt for mushrooms that day. Angela Everts. Is she in your employ?”
“No. She went out to the ranch three days a week to help out with cleaning and gardening. She lives in Lewiston.”
“Do you think she would talk to me?” Barbara asked, and saw the knowing look in Mrs. Canby’s eyes. “I suspect that people who work for you don’t talk unless you give permission,” she added.
“I’ll give you their numbers and give them both a call,” Mrs. Canby said. “But, Ms. Holloway, I must tell you, I believe that poor girl lost her head and killed her child, just as Angela and Emma both believe. She was in great physical pain and emotionally exhausted. I know such things happen; very good, decent people can lose control. I feel dreadfully sorry for her, but I don’t believe for a minute that I can be of any help in her defense.”
“I think you’ve been a great help,” Barbara said. “I’m just not sure yet what any of it means,” she added honestly.
EIGHT
Sunday night she pretended she was not listening for the telephone to ring, for her father’s voice. Stop worrying about him, he won’t stay mad, she told herself sharply. But he might, she added. He might.
She made a list of things to do immediately. Call Fairchild first thing in the morning, ask for a copy of everything they had gathered to date: police reports, fire department reports, Paula’s medical records, the psychiatrist’s report, interviews with the others who had been at the ranch… Call Emma Tidball and Angela Everts for appointments. No matter if they had been interviewed already, with Mrs. Canby’s intercession either or both of them might be more forthcoming. Go to Bessie’s office to read the latest diatribe.
She looked at her calendar with a frown. The trial date was set for the Tuesday following Labor Day, ten weeks away. And people took off in the summer, the Fourth of July holiday would interfere, as would the Labor Day holiday. It would be tight, too tight to be comfortable, but there it was. Ten weeks; countdown had started.
She turned on her computer and keyed in an account of her conversation with Grace Canby, not that she was very likely to forget, but to try to clarify an elusive feeling that she had learned something important that she had not yet identified. Reading her report over, she still did not know what that elusive fragment had been. She wondered if, when Mrs. Canby called her former employees, she would refer to Barbara as a girl. She smiled to herself, and rather hoped she would.
He could be so stubborn, she thought then, and drew in an exasperated breath when she realized she was still brooding about her father. He had always been stubborn, her mother had complained. Barbara remembered how, when they fought, which was rare, neither of them had yielded until her mother had found a way to make him think he had won. She tightened her lips and shook her head. No way would she play that game with him.
Suddenly she remembered what he had told her, that after her mother’s death he had not been able to sleep until he moved out to the house on the river, and there, soothed by the wind in the fir trees, and the rush of the river, he had finally been able to rest. She hoped he was sleeping now.
Her own grief had been different. She had fought sleep, not wanting oblivion, wanting to stay conscious to remember and relive everything, every moment, every word, over and over. When her body betrayed her and forced sleep upon her, she came awake again and again in tears with no memory of her dreams.
Abruptly she left her desk and went to the bathroom. No brooding, she told herself. Take a soaking bath, go to bed, be rested for the day to come. Countdown had started.
Mr. Fairchild was cooperative, as she had known he would be. He would have copies of everything made and send it all over to the office, he said, and she told him no, she would pick it up later.
Next on her list was Angela Everts, who agreed to meet her at four that afternoon. As soon as she hu
ng up, the phone rang, and she picked it up without waiting for her machine to answer.
“Oh, Barbara, Ted Fairchild here. Look, there’s been some kind of silly business over here. We can’t find the Kennerman file. I gave it to Bill to review on Friday, and he’s off on vacation and no one can put their finger on it now. He could have taken it home with him, I suppose, and forgot to return it.”
“Damnation,” she muttered.
“I quite agree. I’m just terribly sorry, Barbara. I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything.”
“I know. I know. Can Spassero be reached? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He has a married sister back East somewhere, and parents in Massachusetts, and ... I really don’t know. He’ll be back in two weeks,” he said in a more hopeful voice.
“Thanks,” she said dryly.
She called the district attorney’s office and asked for Gerald Fierst, who would be prosecuting the case. She had known him years ago, but had not met him again since returning to Oregon. He was very cautious, she remembered, and her memory was confirmed by his reluctance to give her anything. When she hung up she was in a black mood. He would put together something, she knew, but how much? The same stuff he had handed over to Spassero in the beginning? Maybe, maybe not. When, was another question; as soon as possible, he had said, but they were pretty busy, people on vacation, you know how that goes.
Emma Tidball called her “dear” and said she could come by anytime. She had nothing if not time. They agreed on eleven that morning.
Was there time enough to go to the office and read the latest scandal sheet? She decided there was, if she hurried; she left the house and hurried. She nodded to Pam at the reception desk and went directly to Bessie’s office, where on the table the newspaper was open to a big picture of Paula in manacles being led away to jail.
