F Is for Fugitive

hiring presently. The hotel won't open for business until April first."
    "I'm not looking for work. I need some information about a former patient of yours."
    His eyes took on that doctor-privilege look. "And who would that be?"
    "Jean Timberlake."
    His body language switched over to a code I couldn't read. "Are you with the police?"
    I shook my head. "I'm a private detective, hired by –"
    "I can't help you, then."
    "Mind if I sit?"
    He stared at me blankly, accustomed to his pronouncements being taken as law. He probably never had to deal with pushy people like me. He was protected from the public by his receptionist, his lab tech, his nurse, his billing clerk, his answering service, his office manager, his wife – an army of women keeping Doctor safe and untouched. "I must not have made myself clear, Miss Millhone. We have nothing to discuss."
    "Sorry to hear that," I said equably. "I'm trying to find out who her father was."
    "Who let you in here?"
    "The desk clerk just talked to your wife," I said, which was true but not relevant.
    "Young lady, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. There's no way in the world I'd give you information about the Timberlakes. I've been the personal physician to that family for years."
    "I understand that," I said. "I'm not asking you to breach confidentiality –"
    "You most certainly are!"
    "Dr. Dunne, I'm trying to get a line on a murder suspect. I know Jean was illegitimate. I've got a copy of the birth certificate, listing her father as unknown. I don't see any reason to protect the man if you know who he was. If you don't, just say so and save us both some time."
    "This is a damn outrage, barging in on me like this! You have no right to pry into that poor girl's past. Excuse me," he said darkly, crossing to the door. "Elva!" he yelled. "El!!"
    I could hear someone thumping purposefully down the corridor. I put a business card on the edge of his desk. "I'm at the Ocean Street Motel if you decide to help."
    I was halfway out the door when Mrs. Dunne appeared. She was still in tennis clothes, her pale cheeks flushed. I could see that she recognized me from my first visit to the place. My return wasn't greeted with the delight I had hoped for. She was holding her racket like a hatchet, the wooden rim edgewise. I eased away, keeping an eye on her. I don't usually feel that threatened by horsey women with big legs, but she had already stepped across the line into my psychological space. She moved forward a step, standing so close now I could smell her breath, no big treat.
    "I was hoping to get some help on a case, but I guess I was wrong."
    "Call the police," she said flatly to him.
    Without any warning, she lifted the racket like a samurai sword.
    I skipped back as the racket swopped down at me. "Whoa, lady! You better watch that," I said.
    She struck out at me again, missing.
    I had dodged in reflex. "Hey! Knock it off!"
    She whacked at me again, fanning the air within an inch of my face. I jerked back. This was ludicrous. I wanted to laugh, but the racket had hissed with a savagery that made my stomach lurch. I danced backward as she advanced. She swatted again with the Wilson and missed. Her face had taken on an expression of avid concentration, eyes glittering, lips parted slightly. Behind her, I was dimly aware that Dr. Dunne's attitude had shifted from wariness to concern.
    "Elva, that's enough," he said.
    I didn't think she'd heard him, or if she had, she didn't care. The racket whacked at me sideways, wielded this time like a broadax. She shifted her weight, her grip two-handed as she sliced diagonally, and sliced again.
    Whack, whack!
    Missing me by a hair's breadth and only because I was quick. She was totally focused and I was afraid if I turned to run, she'd catch me in the back of the head. Take a crack like that and you're talkin' blood, folks. Not a fatal impact, but one you'd prefer to skip.
    Up came the racket again. The wood rim descended like a blade, too swift this time to evade.
    I took the brunt of it on my left forearm, raised instinctively to shield my face. The racket connected with a cracking sound. The blow was like a white flash of heat up my arm. I can't say I felt pain. It was more like a jolt to my psyche, unleashing aggression.
    I caught her in the mouth with the heel of my hand, knocking her back into him. The two of them went down with a mingled yelp of surprise. The air around me felt white and empty and clean. I grabbed her shirt with an