F Is for Fugitive

figured" department of women's clothing stores. She must have been in her late forties, with white-blond hair, white lashes, and pale, unblemished skin. Her hands and feet were large, and the shoes she wore were the prison-matron-lace-up sort.
    I handed her my business card, introducing myself. "I'm looking for someone who might remember Jean Timberlake."
    She kept her eyes pinned on my face, her expression blank. "You'll want to talk to my husband, Dr. Dunne. Unfortunately, he's away."
    "Can you tell me when he's expected back?"
    "I'm not certain. If you leave a number, I can have him call when he returns."
    We locked eyes. Hers were the stony gray of winter skies before snow. "What about you?" I said. "Did you know the girl yourself?"
    There was a pause. Then, carefully, "I knew who she was."
    "I understand she was working here at the time of her death."
    "I don't think this is something we should discuss" – she glanced down at the card – "Miss Millhone."
    "Is there some problem?"
    "If you'll tell me how to reach you, I'll have my husband get in touch."
    "Room twenty-two at the Ocean Street Motel in –"
    "I know where it is. I'm sure he'll call if he has time."
    "Wonderful. That way we won't have to bother about subpoenas." I was bluffing, of course, and she might have guessed as much, but I did enjoy the pale wash of color that suffused her cheeks. "I'll check back if I don't hear from him," I said.
    It wasn't until I reached the car again that I remembered the owners mentioned in the brochure I'd seen. Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Dunne had bought the hotel the same year Jean Timberlake died.

Chapter 10
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    It was 12:35 when I swung back around to the main street of Floral Beach and parked my car out in front of Pearl's Pool Hall. Weekday business hours were listed as 11:00 A.M. to 2:00 A.M. The door stood open. Last night's air tumbled out in a sluggish breeze that smelled of beer spills and cigarettes. The interior was stuffy, slightly warmer than the ocean-chilled temperature outside. I caught sight of Daisy at the back door, hauling out a massive plastic sack of trash. She gave me a noncommittal look, but I sensed that her mood was dark. I took a seat at the bar. I was the only customer at that hour. Empty, the place seemed even more drab than it had the night before. The floors had been swept and I could see peanut shells and cigarette butts in a heap near the broom, waiting to be nudged into the dustpan propped nearby. The back door banged shut and Daisy reappeared, wiping her hands on the toweling she'd tucked in her belt. She approached warily, her gaze not quite meeting mine. "How's the detective work?"
    "I'm sorry I didn't identify myself last night."
    "What's it to me? I don't give a damn who you are."
    "Maybe not, but I wasn't quite straight with Tap and I feel bad about that." "You look real tore up."
    I shrugged. "I know it sounds lame, but it's the truth. You thought I was hustling him, and in a way, I was."
    She said nothing. She stood and stared at me. After a while she said, "You want a Co'-Cola? I'm having one."
    I nodded, watching as she picked up a couple of Mason jars and filled them from the hose dispenser under the bar. She set mine in front of me. "Thanks."
    "I hear by the grapevine Royce hired you," she said. "What'd he do that for?"
    "He's hoping to have Bailey cleared of the murder charge."
    "He'll have a hell of a time after what happened this morning. If Bailey's innocent like he claims, why take off?"
    "People get impulsive under pressure. When I talked to him at the jail, he seemed pretty desperate. Maybe when Tap showed up, he saw a way out."
    Daisy's tone was contemptuous. "Kid never did have a lick of sense."
    "So it would seem."
    "What about Royce? How's he doing?"
    "Not that well. He went right to bed. A lot of people are over there with Ori."
    "I don't have much use for her," Daisy said. "Anybody heard from Bailey?"
    "Not as far as I know."
    She busied herself behind the bar, running a sinkful of hot soapy water and a second sinkful of rinse water. She began to wash Mason jars left over from the night before, her motions automatic as she ran through the sequence, setting clean jars to drain on a towel to the right. "What'd you want with Tap?"
    "I was curious what he had to say about Jean Timber lake."
    "I heard you askin' him about the stickups them two pulled."
    "I was interested in whether his version would match Bailey's."
    "Did it?"
    "More or less," I said. I studied her