by Kate Wilhelm
BABY KILLER KENNERMAN FIRES
ANOTHER LAWYER
Baby killer Kennerman has fired the second lawyer provided by the court in an attempt to find one who will handle the case her way. Barbara Holloway of the firm Bixby, Holloway, and a dozen others, all high-priced and left of center, has agreed to represent Baby killer Kennerman…
Barbara scanned the article quickly and lifted the paper to turn to the continuation on page four. Under it was another one with Paula’s picture and the same headline. She looked at the paper she held and found that it was The Watchman,, from Joseph County. The one under it was Dodgson’s paper. The story was exactly the same.
She sat down and let her gaze roam over the many bins of small-town papers from all over the state. How many others would be offering up this same picture, this same story? Later, she told herself. Later. Now she had time only to look over Dodgson’s paper. She scanned the first page, largely devoted to Paula Kennerman. Barbara was the big item on page two, and a long article about the firm, the wealthy clients it catered to, the special-interest groups it served—gays, feminists, environmentalists, foreigners… She gritted her teeth, thinking of the reaction of some of the people it singled out for attention.
There were other articles that she intended to read, but not now. One about schools and the need for choice, another about a new threat to the logging of someone’s private property, which was being halted by Earth First! She put the paper down and patted it. Later, she thought; later.
Cottage Grove was a pleasant little town situated in the hills twenty-five miles south of Eugene. It was an easy drive on the interstate, one that Barbara had always enjoyed because it appeared that as soon as one left the valley, the world turned into a vast forest on hills that precluded large farms with massive mechanized equipment. Here the farms were small, manageable, dimples in the forest.
In Cottage Grove she drove past the auto shop where Lucille Reiner’s husband worked, past the hotel where Lucille was a desk clerk part of the time. On an unpaved street near a stream she found the address for Emma Tidball. The house was frame, as were most of them here, blue with white trim, with a neat lawn and a flower border edging a fence. The house had been built back in the twenties, apparently, with gingerbread over gables upstairs, more gingerbread on the porch railing.
Emma Tidball came to the door at the Brst ring. “Yes, yes,” she said as soon as Barbara stated her name. “Come in, dear, come in.” She was sixty-two, Barbara learned that day, along with complete histories of her, her husband—now dead, bless his soul—the Canby family, many people Barbara never had heard of, and the town itself. Emma was twenty pounds overweight, she also confided, but she felt comfortable with it, not like some people always trying to diet and feeling bad when it didn’t work out. She had curly gray hair and many wrinkles; laugh lines, she said.
They were seated on a screened back porch overlooking a small vegetable garden and more flowerbeds. Emma had brought out a pitcher of iced tea and glasses, and a small plate of oatmeal cookies. “With walnuts,” she said. “Always made them with walnuts. They seem naked without the nuts.” They were delicious.
Barbara steered the conversation in the direction of the Canby Ranch refuge for women, and sat back with her iced tea to listen to another monologue.
Barbara learned which appliances had been replaced, how much it cost to heat in the winter, how much food those women ate, on and on. Then she listened more intently.
“Before we even opened it up, Grace brought over this psychologist, and we sat in that house and talked about it. Some of the women would be so scared, the psychologist said. Janey Lipscomb, that’s her name. She said, if they don’t want to talk, don’t try to make them. You wouldn’t believe the shape some of them were in! You just wouldn’t believe it. And every last one of them scared to death the men they were running away from would come after them. ...”
As soon as there was a break in the monologue, Barbara said, “Emma, you have such a wonderful memory, you surely remember the names of some of those women, don’t you?”
Emma nodded gravely. “Some. Mostly we didn’t make them say their names, you know. Some did and some didn’t. But we promised not to tell anyone.”
“I understand,” Barbara said. “Emma, I swear to you that I will not reveal any of their names to anyone without their permission. But they’ve been through what Paula Kennerman went through with her husband; they understand her better than you or I can. Maybe some of them would want to help her. Maybe we should let them have the choice, let them decide.”
Emma’s lips tightened and she stood up. “I’ll get us some fresh tea,” she said.
Barbara waited, fighting her frustration and impatience. Emma was gone too long to be making tea. Calling Grace Canby for instructions? Thinking? What?
When Emma returned, she put the pitcher of tea down and said, “I had to pray over it first. A lot of those women came in in pretty bad shape, just like Paula, and some of them could have done what she did, they were that crazy. Scared to death, hurting—they can do crazy things and not even know it the next day.”
Emma had written out a list of seventeen names, all she could recall, and she had snapshots of three of the women. Some of them dropped a line now and then, she said, but all the notes, cards, and letters had been in the house when it burned.
Barbara thanked her sincerely and asked, “Were any of these mixed up in any of the incidents that made Rich Dodgson call Mrs. Canby and complain?”
Emma’s pleasant, crinkly face hardened. She looked over the list and pointed to three names. “These two, Pam and Jenny, went swimming naked, and that fool had to stand on tiptoe to see them. And this one, Carol, took pictures of the elk on his property or something. At dawn. You’d think that idiot would have been in bed instead of up looking for trouble.”
While Barbara made notes besides the names, Emma went on about Dodgson. “Butter wouldn’t melt and all that baloney soft soap when ne first started coming around wanting that property. And then he started that filthy rag of a paper. He’s the kind of Christian that makes the rest of us think Buddhism might be worth looking into, except he’s no Christian, not the way I understand religion. He’d see me in Lewiston shopping or something and he’d say something smirky like ‘And how many wounded birds are flapping around your ankles these days? Seven?’ He always knew the head count. They spied on us from the start, him and her, Kay Dodgson. One of our girls had a miscarriage last year and we had to get an ambulance and get her to the hospital, and the next day here he came, him and that son of his, worse than the father, that one, and they were yelling that we were running an abortion clinic, for heaven’s sake! Well, one of the girls who’d been up all night with that sick girl screamed at them to get out of there, that the poor kid had the shit beat out of her by her husband and she might die, and if they didn’t hightail it out she’d start throwing rocks at them and with any luck she’d hit one smack in the head and kill him.” There was a gleam of very un-Christian satisfaction in Emma’s eyes as she finished.
“What did Mrs. Canby say about that?”
“I didn’t tell her. If he complained, then I’d tell her the whole story, I decided, but until he did, well, it seemed to me that the matter had been handled just about right. I guess I didn’t want to worry her any more than I had to. I mean, she left me in charge and all.”
Soon after this Barbara said, “You know you’ll be called by the prosecution as a witness, don’t you?”
“I talked to them,” Emma said. “They asked questions and I answered them as best I could. And I told them the same thing I told you about that day.”
“Did they ask how Paula and her child behaved on Thursday night, all day Friday?”
“They did, and I told them Paula loved that child more than life, and Lori adored her mother. She’d go pressing against Paula’s side, and you could see Paula turn ghost white, and sweat stand out on her lip, she was in such pain, but she held that little girl tight against he
r until she was willing to let go again. Paula was out of her mind when she did it. She was walking on the brink and she fell off, and it wasn’t her fault, but his. He’s the one should be locked up, not her.”
When Barbara finally left, she decided to have a sandwich, then see if Paula had her list of names ready, and then make her four o’clock appointment with Angela Everts. There would be enough time if she didn’t dawdle anywhere along the line. She didn’t dawdle, and arrived at Angela Everts’s house promptly at four.
It was a large two-story house on several acres that seemed to consist of vegetable gardens and fruit trees. The property was a mile out of Lewiston; it looked very well tended and productive.
When the door opened at Barbara’s knock, a pleasing fragrance of strawberry jam wafted out. “Mrs. Everts? I’m Barbara Holloway.”
Angela nodded and moved so that Barbara could enter. “Mrs. Canby called,” she said. “She said I should tell you what you want to know, but there isn’t anything really. I already told it all.”
“I know,” Barbara said. “I’m really sorry to intrude, but I would appreciate your talking to me, too.”
Angela Everts was in her forties, blond with slightly protuberant blue eyes and a little too much weight around her midsection. She was dressed in faded, soft jeans, and a tank top. Her arms were very muscular and tanned.
She led Barbara to the kitchen, a big room with a table large enough to seat a dozen people. There was a lot of counter space that appeared almost covered by jars of strawberry jam. There were kettles on the stove, another in the sink, long wooden spoons, a splotch of jam on the floor.
Barbara accepted coffee and took a place at the table. Angela looked over her kitchen with a shrug and turned her back on it to sit down with her own cup.
“Do you want to ask questions or just let me tell you what I told the others already?” Angela asked with resignation.
“Why don’t you just tell me.”
It was the same story Barbara had heard and read. When Angela was finished, Barbara asked, “Were you near Paula when Annie came out? Could you hear what Annie told Paula?”
“I know what she told her. Same thing she told me; Lori fell asleep watching television and Annie didn’t see much point in staying in with her.”
“But you couldn’t hear what she said to Paula? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I asked her what she told Paula and she told me.” She finished her coffee and set the cup down. “Miss Holloway, I know what you’re going to ask, if you can talk to Annie, and no, you can’t. She’s forgotten all this, the way children do. She was pretty upset at first, crying in her sleep, afraid people would blame her, and now she’s put it out of mind, and I don’t want to stir her up again.”
They couldn’t leave it at that, Barbara knew, but now she said, “Did you work for Mrs. Canby when she was living out here?”
“Yes, until she moved up to Salem. Never full-time, just two or three days a week, like I was doing when Emma was running the place.”
“And you know the Dodgsons, the whole family, I understand.”
“I used to work for them. After Mrs. Canby moved away, Mr. Dodgson asked me to come. I didn’t stay long. They’re awfully particular,” she said in a flat tone.
“I hear they can be difficult,” Barbara commented with as little emphasis as Angela had expressed. “You saw them both that morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He was out on the tractor. He liked to go out there, wear a cowboy hat, smoke his cigar, and ride that tractor like it was a fancy car or something. He was out that morning. It was too wet to mow, but he was out doing it. I said to myself that he’d get stuck down in the marshy places, and he did, and revved the engine something fierce until he pulled it out again. And she was walking on the road, the way she does.”
“Will you tell me about that, about meeting her, what she said? Whatever you can remember.”
Angela looked away, out the screen door, and said carefully, “I don’t like her, Miss Holloway, and that’s the truth. And that’s why I stopped. Because I don’t like her, if you can understand that.”
Barbara nodded. “I think I understand.”
“Well, Annie saw her and scrunched down in the backseat, hiding. She doesn’t like her either. Maybe it was because of the way Annie was acting, and I wanted to teach her a little lesson in being polite or something. But I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see her, in that pink running outfit and white sneakers. She wears pink a lot, and with her complexion she shouldn’t. Anyway, I stopped and told her we were all going to gather chanterelles and I asked her if she’d like some. I knew there’d be a lot. And she asked how sick the new girl was, the one they took over to the hospital, her and her child, and I knew I’d made a mistake by stopping at all. They always seemed to know things like that, and I didn’t even know a thing about it. So I said not too sick to take a little walk in the woods, and I drove on.”
“When you drove to her house to use the phone, was Mr. Dodgson still out on the tractor?”
Angela nodded. “Heading toward the marshy edge again, I guess daring it to try to stop him again. Mrs. Canby asked him not to cut it so close—the ducks like to nest in the high grass and the geese eat the seeds—but he likes things neat. Real particular, both of them.”
Loved by all, Barbara thought. “Was anyone else home that day when you used their phone?”
“Well, Craig was swimming and Reggie Melrose was in the kitchen. I rang the doorbell and hammered on the door, and Mrs. Dodgson opened it. She was carrying Craig’s robe. I guess she was pretty surprised to see me at the front door. I thought for a minute she was going to bawl me out, but she didn’t. She told me to use the phone in the family room, and she went on through it to turn off the music in the swimming pool room. Craig always blasted your ears with music in there. And she yelled at him to get out and get dressed, and Reggie came out of the kitchen to see what was happening.”
“Did you see Craig?”
“Yes, I guess I did. I saw him and then turned my back. He swims naked.”
“Who is Reggie? The housekeeper?”
“Was. She left. No one stays very long, I tell you. If there’s a speck of dust, someone’s going to lead you to it and point it out just like the world’s coming to an end.”
There was little more that she could add, and in a few minutes Barbara returned to the subject that couldn’t be avoided any longer. “Mrs. Everts,” she said slowly, “I believe you know that Annie hasn’t really forgotten what happened that day. Children don’t forget things like fire and death. Probably she’ll never forget it. Would you consider counseling for her?”
Angela stood up. “I have to clean up all this mess and start making supper now, Miss Holloway.”
Barbara rose from her chair. “I’m not a psychologist,” she said, “but I have read that children who are seriously disturbed by something they witnessed sometimes revert to more infantile behavior. They might start bed-wetting again, or suck their thumbs, or forget lessons they knew previously. Mrs. Everts, would you be willing to discuss this with a trained child psychologist?”
Angela looked hard and cold and very distant. “No, I won’t. There’s nothing wrong with Annie! You hear me? There’s nothing wrong with my little girl!”
“I think there must be something disturbing her very much if she claims to have forgotten. Please think about it, Mrs. Everts. Her entire life could be affected if she is deeply troubled and doesn’t receive help now before she really does bury this incident.”
“I have to be getting on with my work,” Angela said, and started toward the hall that led to the front door.
Barbara followed her. At the door she tried once more. “Do you know Dr. Jane Lipscomb? Mrs. Canby hired her early on, before she opened the house.”
Angela shook her head. “I never saw her. Emma talked about her a little.”
“You know if Mrs. Canby hired her she must be good. If I ask her to get in touch with you, wi
ll you at least talk to her?”
Angela hesitated, then nodded. “But she can’t see Annie, just me.”
NINE
On her way home she bought a frozen dinner and salad makings and even a bottle of wine, which was cheap but okay. She was too tired to cope with a real meal and too hungry to care what she had.
She listened to her phone messages as she ate. Unless she heard to the contrary, Bailey would drop by tomorrow around ten. She nodded. Nothing from her father, nothing she had to do anything about. Then she called an old friend, Brian O’Connor, who had been a classmate years ago and now was a professor of law at the University of Oregon in Eugene.
She remembered Brian as a chubby, round-faced, serious boy with red hair and freckles. She had gone to his wedding seven years ago and found that he had become a chubby, round-faced, serious man with hair not quite so red. Nothing really changes, she had thought then.
Brian wanted to chat, but she was in no mood to hear about his two wonderful kids, his wonderful wife, or his wonderful tenure.
“Brian,” she cut in, “I need some students to do some research.”
His tone changed. “Ah, research. Students. Why students?”
“Because I can’t afford professionals,” she said honestly. “And it would be good experience for them. They have to be very, very discreet, and very bright.”
“Students,” he said again. “I suppose you mean graduate students.”
“Brian, come on. You know that’s what I mean. When we were in school this would have seemed heaven-sent to us. A little real work, a little money. Can you give me three?”
“Why don’t we get together and talk about it? You know, I have a responsibility to my students. I wouldn’t feel right unless we talk first.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “Fine. Look, let me buy you—” She caught herself before she said lunch, remembering that he ate like a horse, and said instead, “A cup of coffee. Tomorrow?
He had to explain at some length why he couldn’t make it until in the afternoon, and they agreed to meet at three in an espresso bar downtown. But he would do it, she knew. He owed her; she had done enough algebra homework for him a long time ago for him to pass the course, and her little reminder of their impoverished days would jog more than one memory. He would think about whom to recommend overnight, hem and haw about it, ask too many questions, and then give her the short list.
