As I scanned the pages with a sense of horrid fascination, I kept picturing the surveillance equipment in Lizzie's bar, taping the way Tommy, Bart and Buck responded to an old man's tale of lost treasure in the hills. Were they nothing more than fodder for this man's next book? Or was something else going on entirely? Either way, if it was the professor who'd been secretly taping the tavern, then something had gone terribly wrong and Tommy was in the thick of it. I looked at my watch and hurried out of the library toward the lecture hall and Professor Cathwaite's eleven o'clock class.
The second I saw him, I recognized him from the festival at the park. Tall and lean, with a well-trimmed beard showing white at the edges, he had fashionably short-cut brown hair, graying at the temples, and gray, penetrating eyes. He was dressed casually in tan trousers, brown leather Docksiders and a pale orange cotton polo shirt. He stood at a lectern addressing a half-full lecture hall. Those in attendance seemed riveted, and it wasn't long before I too was caught up in the professor's enthusiasm.
I'd hoped to catch him talking about the subject of his book, but instead he was discussing the previous night's reading assignment, an article on gender development and sexual preference. Males and females alike seemed shaken by his notions — radical to them — that in a different society with a different set of mores, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that the vast majority of the people in that room would be bisexual. I could tell he enjoyed their shocked objections, and in fact seemed to incite them deliberately, drawing them into the heated debate. I was beginning to think that his lecture seemed almost antithetical to his thesis on free will, when he announced to the class that their shocked reactions were entirely predictable. The room fell silent for a moment, as if the students had been insulted into submission.
"Who is going to challenge me on this?" he taunted. A few tentative hands shot up and soon the lively debate raged on. Far from the boring lecture I'd expected, Professor Cathwaite conducted a fast-paced, emotionally charged give-and-take that had everyone in the room poised on the edge of their seats. When the campus bells chimed at noon, not one person got up to leave.
"Well, I guess, we'll have to wait and finish this discussion tomorrow," he said. It was the first time I'd ever heard college freshmen groan at having to leave class.
Both energized and intrigued, I filed out with the rest of them. There was no doubt the professor was charismatic, intelligent and passionate about his work. He also had somewhat unconventional ideas, and he didn't hesitate to rile people up. He'd clearly known how the students would react to his assertions about bisexuality and he'd purposely egged them on. Just as he'd known how his graduate students would react to the variables he'd laid out for them in his doctoral thesis, I thought. He didn't seem to have any qualms about using human subjects for his experiments back in 1975 or for his own enjoyment now. The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that Professor 'Cathwaite had been enjoying himself in there. The students may have been curious and even riveted, but the professor was having sheer fun.
I spent the short drive to The Salad Palace mulling over potential scenarios, wondering exactly what the professor was up to and how he'd come to choose Tommy and his friends as guinea pigs. The way I figured it, Bart hadn't been far off. But it wasn't the professor's wife making her version of weird home movies, it was the professor himself conducting sociological experiments using tavern-goers as his subjects. But what was the point? And how had it gotten so far out of hand that Tommy ended up in a coma?
The Salad Palace looked like a converted barn with potted ferns hanging from the rafters to hide the unfinished ceiling joists. The buffet selections were plentiful, imaginative and always fresh. Martha was waiting for me at the entrance, a tray held impatiently on her knee.
"I was about to start without you," she said, giving me a bear hug. Martha is a big woman who looks like a cop even out of uniform. If she were wearing pjs and bunny slippers, you'd still know she was the law. That day she was dressed sharply in a navy blazer and matching slacks. I knew by the familiar bulge that beneath the jacket was a holstered forty-five, and that she carried a smaller piece in an ankle strap just above her boot.
"You look good," she said, holding me at arm's-length and appraising me with a practiced eye. "You getting enough sleep?"
"Very funny, Mart. The answer is, yes. Plenty. Come on, I'm starving."
Martha laughed at her failed attempt to find out if I was sleeping with Erica and led the way, piling greens on her plate as she worked her way down the buffet. "Don't know why people think salads are dietary," she said. "By the time I put all this stuff on, I've got more fat grams than a Big Mac." She heaped on another spoonful of sunflower seeds and reached for the grated cheddar.
"There's no law that says you've got to take everything just because it's available."
She gave me a pained expression and glanced pointedly at my plate, which was every bit as full as hers. "I rest my case," she said, moving toward the blue cheese dressing.
I thought momentarily about opting for the less fattening light Italian, just to show her I could eschew a few grams of fat if I wanted to, then sighed and heaped on the blue cheese.
"So, how's the kid?" she asked, sliding into a booth.
"Still in a coma. No one seems to have any idea if he'll pull out of it or not."
"Any lead on who the doer was?"
"Well, that's a funny question, Mart. You got a few hours?"
She laughed. "Give me the Readers Digest version."
So I did. When I finished, Martha gave up hunting for fat grams on her plate and put her fork down. Her brown eyes regarded me with concern.
"Seems to me," she said finally, "that you've got at least two different things going on here. This Buck Bailey character sounds like a walking menace. Could be Hancock was following him for good reason. I still like him as your perp. But this other stuff with the professor is just plain weird. There's definitely something hinky going on with him. What's Booker think?"
"Uh, I haven't really told him much, Mart."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're holding out on Tom? Why?"
"Because of Hancock. If Tom thinks for one second that his deputy is involved in what happened to Tommy, he'll go off half-cocked. He'll confront him, I know he will. I just want to buy a little time."
"So what's your plan?" she asked, reaching for her wallet.
I waved her away and put a twenty on the table. Martha had paid last time. "I'm still working on it," I said truthfully.
Martha frowned. "I'd feel better if Tom were working with you on this."
"Hey, the second I know what's happening, I'll tell him everything. I promise."
"Yeah, well, just be careful. And keep me informed, okay? Now, what's up with my favorite Glamour Girl? You handling her okay?"
"Sort of." I laughed. "She kissed me."
"And?"
"And. I kissed her back."
"Well. That is progress." Martha was grinning. "I was beginning to think you'd never see the light!"
"Oh, come on, Mart. You make it sound like it's a foregone conclusion that we'll get back together. I do have something to say about this, you know."
She threw back her head and laughed. "You do realize that you're the only one in town who doesn't know you're still in love with her?"
It was my turn to laugh. "I don't know, Mart. I don't want to just fall into something without, you know, thinking it through."
"Oh, for God's sake! All you do is think things through. One of these days, you ought to just let yourself go and do what you feel like." She stood up, leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, then marched toward the exit. "Call me!" she ordered.
Around two, when I pulled into the marina parking lot, Sheriff Tom Booker was waiting for me. He stood with his black Stetson pushed back, a toothpick between his teeth like he had all the time in the world. I knew that look. The relaxed stance didn't fool me one bit.
"How come I get the feeling you're avoiding
me?" he asked.
I climbed out of the Cherokee and leaned against the door. "Maybe because the last time I talked to you, you acted like a world-class butthead."
Despite himself, he chuckled. "That I did, girl. On the other hand, as I recall, you were guilty of withholding pertinent evidence in an ongoing investigation. You're lucky I didn't haul you in!"
We glared at each other for about two seconds. Then Booker threw his toothpick into the dumpster and followed me down to my boat.
"I don't have to ask you if you're up to something, because I can tell by that look in your eyes that you are. You gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to wait until you decide to grace me with another revelation?"
"Have to wait," I said, smiling sweetly. "I haven't got it quite figured out yet. How about you?"
He scowled at me, then gave in to his need to talk about it. "The Bailey boys have all but disappeared. Word has it Buck was real ticked off the other night, and his prints are all over Tommy's place, so it looks like he was in on the ransacking. I was kinda hoping you'd share with me the location of this supposed lost treasure, or whatever it is, so I could mosey on up there myself and have a talk with the boys."
"Bart's not up there, and he wasn't involved in trashing Tommy's."
"Okay." He waited, pulling another toothpick out of his shirt pocket and twirling it between his lips. You could always tell an ex-smoker. When they were agitated, they had to put something in their mouths. I thought about telling Booker everything we'd learned, calculating the risks either way. If I didn't tell him, I might actually be withholding valuable evidence — a crime, as he'd so delicately reminded me. Worse, I'd be lying to a friend. But then there was the issue of Newt. What I'd told Martha was true. If Booker thought his deputy might be involved in a crime, he'd probably confront him. As much as I owed it to Booker to be honest, I gritted my teeth, sent a silent apology to the gods and told a partial truth.
"Buck is up there, or at least I think he is. Bart took us up there yesterday, but we couldn't find him. His truck's there though. I think he's camping out." I gave Booker the general directions.
"Hmph," Booker intoned. "By 'us,' I assume you mean you and Erica Trinidad. How do you know Bart's innocent?"
"Because I talked to him." I told Booker everything Bart had told me in the truckstop — how Tommy had found out that Buck was looking for the lost clue without them, how Tommy had found the long-lost note in Buck's backpack and taken it, and how Buck had gone postal when he found out it was missing. Every word was true. I just happened to leave out everything I'd learned since then. Namely, that the notes were phony and that from what I could gather, the professor, his wife, his handyman, maybe even Newt and who knew how many others, were playing some kind of weird game at the boys' expense. It was possible that Buck didn't have a damn thing to do with the attack on Tommy. Then again, it seemed he had looked up Erica's address and someone had followed her, probably him. I held onto that thought and tried to look at Booker with sincere innocence.
"Hmph," he said again. He looked for a place to throw his toothpick, then pocketed it and stroked his silver moustache.
"Guess I better head on up the ridge then and have a chat. You look kinda funny. Everything goin' okay out there on the lake?"
He meant with Erica.
"Yeah. Pretty much. I think so."
"Hmph," he said again. Sometimes Booker said more with monosyllabic grunts than others did with words, but from the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, I suspected he had something to say.
"What?" I finally asked.
"Oh, nothing, really. I was just thinking about something I said the other day about being careful, on account of I hated to see you get hurt again. Not that it's any of my business, of course. But, well..."
"Tom, what in the world are you trying to tell me?"
"Well, sometimes it doesn't pay to be too careful. You know. I mean, good things don't always come around all that often. If you know what I mean." His cheeks had turned uncharacteristically pink and it was the first time I'd ever heard him stammer.
"I appreciate the advice," I said, feeling my own cheeks redden. Booker shrugged like it was no big deal and climbed into his cruiser before either of us could say anything else to embarrass ourselves.
I waited until he drove off, then walked the half-block to Lizzie's tavern.
Chapter Thirteen
"I'm not speaking to you," Lizzie informed me when I slid onto the barstool. "Something's going on and you're leaving me out in the cold!"
The bar was blessedly empty, save for a couple of guys at the pool table and one working the pinball machine.
"You're right," I said. "You have as much right to know what's going on as anyone. That's why I'm here." This softened her a bit and she leaned her elbows on the bar.
"I couldn't sleep last night," she admitted. "The idea that someone's been spying on my customers makes me furious. It was all I could do not to throttle Guy Waddell last night. Took every ounce of restraint I had to be civil."
Which was why I was there. Lizzie knew just enough to be dangerous. It was better to have her on the team than to leave her hanging. On her own, she might do something to screw the whole thing up.
"You think you could break away from this place for a while?"
Lizzie looked around, then went to the wall phone and punched in a number. A minute later she was back, her purse slung over her shoulder. "Kelly will be here in five minutes. She just lives across the street."
"Good. You have the Cathwaites' address?"
She disappeared again and by the time she returned, Kelly was toweling glasses behind the bar.
I poked my head out the door and glanced up and down the street, making sure Booker was nowhere in sight, then led Lizzie back to my boat.
I putt-putted through the channel, giving Lizzie a rundown of what I thought was going on. Her brown eyes widened as I recounted the professor's earlier experiments with his grad students, and she immediately made the connection with what had happened in her bar.
"That's immoral!" she said indignantly. "At least if it was someone checking up on a cheating spouse or something, that I could maybe understand. But invading the privacy of my customers..."
"I agree. The question is, what are they using the tapes for?"
"Another book maybe?"
"Maybe," I said, not convinced. "You ever been to the Cathwaites' place?"
"Me? No. Never been invited. Well, except to bartend once at a party. I let Kelly do it. She's more impressed with that stuff than I am. In fact, she's got another job coming up this Sunday out there."
"The Cathwaites are throwing a party this weekend?"
"Yep. My sister-in-law is helping with the catering. The last time she said they had enough food for an army."
"Hmm. Didn't you also say the professor hosts a weekly card game?"
"Mrs. Cathwaite referred to it as a gaming club, I believe. Every Friday night."
"What do they play?"
"Who knows? Bridge? Poker? Fantasy football's big with my customers. I'm not really sure. I just fill the orders. The way they go through the booze, I think they must have quite a crowd, though."
It didn't surprise me that I hadn't run into the Cathwaites before. While Cedar Hills itself was practically small enough to know everyone in town, the lake was a sprawling tangle of arms that spread out along nearly fifty miles of shoreline. The lakeshore was dotted with houses of all shapes and sizes, from old log cabins to palatial estates. Many of the homes were used as weekend get-aways and summer retreats, but at last count, at least a hundred homes were lived in year-round. Residents with road access leading out to the highway could avoid the town of Cedar Hills altogether, doing their shopping and business in Kings Harbor instead.
Scattered between the larger houses were camping lots, dry cabins, and dilapidated houseboats tethered to shore. Here and there, seaplanes were nestled in the trees, moored in front of their owners' estates.
Every type of boat imaginable could be found on the lake, and it was one of the few places I'd ever heard of where rich and poor lived side-by-side in relative compatibility.
When I reached the buoys indicating the end of the no-wake zone, I pushed down on the throttle, sending a white spray of water behind us, and headed for Sturgeon Bay. Situated on the southernmost arm of Rainbow Lake, the cove was a secluded, heavily treed spit of land arching between the lake and the hills behind it. I had motored along the shore of the cove many times, enjoying the wildlife and solitude. Few water-skiers ventured out this far, and despite the promising name, the cove was not known for its fishing. The few houses along the cove's shore were scattered, providing both privacy and spectacular views of the lake.
There was no numbering system for addresses on Rainbow Lake. The mailman who delivered mail three times a week by boat relied on the names posted on the mailboxes nailed to the docks. I slowed down and cruised along, until I found the mailbox that read Cathwaite. In retrospect, it should have been obvious. Among the half-dozen weekend cabins and summer homes was one enormous Lyndal Cedar A-frame, with spectacular triangles of glass facing the water. Wide cedar decks circled the house on both levels and a stone chimney jutted out above the green metal roof. The grounds were well-kept and the boathouse in front was large enough to accommodate a small fleet.
Tied to one end of the dock was an orange and white pontoon replete with shade canopy and wet bar. Apparently the Cathwaites had their own private party boat. I circled around, coasted out to the middle of the cove and cut the engine.
"Wow!" Lizzie said.
"Kinda big for two people," I said. "Do they have kids?"
"Don't know. But they must have lots of friends. And Guy lives out here with them, from what I understand. Great party house, huh?"
"Looks pretty secure," I said, using my binoculars to scan the grounds. Fences were almost unheard of on Rainbow Lake, but the Cathwaites, or perhaps the previous owners, had gone to considerable expense to construct a handsome stucco boundary around the perimeter of the property. "Betcha there are dogs on the other side of that fence."
7th Heaven Page 10
