F Is for Fugitive

Thought he was too good. She told me that herself." Royce coughed into his fist.
    "He did date her briefly."
    Ann's face lifted. "David Poletti did?"
    "Do what I say and leave him out of this."
    "Pop, if Kinsey thinks he might provide useful information, why not let her pursue it?"
    "Who's paying the woman, you or me?" Ann retreated into silence. Ori gestured with impatience and struggled to her feet. "You have ruint this meal," she snapped at him. "Just go on to bed if you can't be civil to our company. Lord a day, Royce, I can't stand no more of your crankiness."
    Now the pouting crossed the table from Ori to Royce. Ann got up and moved to the kitchen counter, probably driven by the same tension that was making my stomach hurt. My orphanhood was becoming more appealing by the minute.
    Ori snatched her cane and began to hobble toward the living room.
    "Sorry for the interruption. Her temper's land of short," he said to me.
    "Is not," she fired back over her shoulder.
    Royce ignored her so he could concentrate on me. "That's all you talked to? Daisy and that... tooth fairy?"
    "I spoke to Shana Timberlake."
    "What for?"
    Ori paused at the door, not wanting to miss a trick. "Maxine says she's took up with Dwight Shales. Can you believe that?"
    "Oh, Mother. Don't be ridiculous. Dwight wouldn't have anything to do with her."
    "It's the truth. Maxine saw her getting out of his car over by the Shop 'n' Go last Saturday."
    "So what?"
    "At six A.M.?" Ori said.
    "Maxine doesn't know what she's talking about."
    "She most certainly does. She was right about Sarah Brunswick and her yardman, wasn't she?"
    Royce turned around and stared at her pointedly. "Do you mind?" Ann's face was beginning to flush darkly as the conflict between the two sparked to life again. He turned back to me. "What's Shana Timberlake got to do with my son?"
    "I'm trying to find out who fathered Jean's baby. I gather he was married."
    "She mention any names?" Royce asked. Ann had returned with a fresh basket of bread, which she passed to him. He took a piece and passed the basket on to me. I placed it on the table, unwilling to be distracted by ritual gestures.
    "She says Jean didn't tell her, but she must suspect someone. I'll let a little time pass and try her again. Bailey indicated Jean was trying to find out who her own father was, and that might open up some possibilities."
    Royce pinched his nose, sniffing, and then he waved the idea away. "Probably some trucker she took up with. Woman never was particular. Long as a fella had money in his pocket, she'd do anything he asked." A second mild bout of coughing shook him and I had to wait till it had passed before I responded.
    "If it was a trucker, why conceal his identity? It almost has to be somebody in the community, and probably somebody respectable."
    "Hogwash. Nobody respectable would be caught dead with that whore..."
    "Somebody who didn't want it known, then," I said.
    "Bullshit! I don't believe a word of it –"
    I cut him off in a flash. "Royce, I know what I'm doing. Would you just back off and let me get on with it?"
    He stared at me dangerously, his face growing dark. "What?"
    "You hired me to do a job and I'm doing it. I don't want to have to justify and defend every move."
    Royce's temper flared like lighter fluid squirted on a fire. His hand shot out and he pointed a shaking finger in my face. "I'm not taking any sass from you, sis!"
    "Great. And I won't take any sass from you. Either I do this my way or you can find somebody else."
    Royce came halfway out of his chair, leaning on the table. "How dare you talk to me that way!" His face was flaming and his arms trembled where they bore his weight.
    I sat where I was, watching him remotely through a haze of anger. I was on the verge of a comment so rude that I hesitated to voice it, when Royce started to cough. There was a pause while he tried to suppress it. He sucked in a breath. The coughing doubled. He pulled out a handkerchief and clamped it across his mouth. Ann and I both gave him our undivided attention, alerted by the fact that he couldn't seem to get his breath. His chest heaved in a wrenching spasm that gathered momentum, flinging him about.
    "Pop, are you all right?"
    He shook his head, unable to speak, his tongue protruding as the coughing shook him from head to toe. He wheezed, clutching at his shirt front as if for support. Instinctively, I reached for him as he staggered backward into his chair, struggling for air. It was